


The Other Side

by sweetsolitude



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 116,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29022396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetsolitude/pseuds/sweetsolitude
Summary: A slow-burn Dramione version of 6th year, The Half-Blood Prince, told from the perspectives of Draco, Hermione, and Theo. No smut, no character bashing. Attempted to stay TTC and the general plot progression of HBP. Primary ship is Draco/Hermione. This fic is already completed at around 150k, will post chapters regularly.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 63
Kudos: 65





	1. Desperate

**A/N:** This fic is a Dramione "re-write" of HBP. I had such a fun time writing it! This story has been stuck in my head for a long time, burning to get out. It's complete at around 150K words. I will post updates regularly.

This fic features the perspectives of Hermione, Draco, Theo, and Andromeda. I have intentionally left out Harry, Ron, and Snape's perspectives. Theo becomes more prevalent as the story progresses.

One of my goals for this fic was to keep the characters "in character," and to make Dramione develop as naturally as possible BUT fair warning, (also spoiler alert) there is a bit of a Harry/Hermione and Draco/Hermione love-triangle, mostly in the first half. Don't worry, H/Hr never really materializes— Dramione is the true pairing.

Some chapters contain lines and paragraphs directly from HBP (some chapters contain none), and the story follows a very similar timeline to HBP. I intend no plagiarism, but I do want to say that I was very inspired by the fic "Clean" by Olivieblake, which I HIGHLY recommend. It's amazing.

Please be prepared for a SLOW BURN :) I'm a big fan of symbolism and Easter eggs, so you'll notice some throughout.

The first few chapters focus on setting up the story, which I felt was important for setting up this long-ish fic. I hope I don't lose you early on, there are plenty of Dramione moments to come. Some chapters are short, some long.

Warning: This story contains mentions and descriptions of violence and brief mentions of child abuse.

I have a Spotify playlist of songs I enjoyed listening to while writing this story, entitled "The Other Side Dramione Fanfic," if you want to listen while you read!

The image for this fic was found via Google search, I hope the creator does not mind me using it here. I'm not sure who created it, but if you have info regarding the creator please let me know and I will ask permission and/or give credit.

Okay, long introductory author's note over! Thank you for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it.

/

**The Other Side**

"STOP!"

The power of Draco's desperation resonated over the echo of his mother's agonized screams.

Shaking with fear and fury, he broke through his aunt Bellatrix's grasp, her long, jagged nails, as black as night, tearing at his arms.

"Draco—!" She seethed as he lunged forward in an attempt to shelter Narcissa, who now lay unconscious on the cold flagstone floor, from further torture. Draco stood resolute at the receiving end of Voldemort's wand, his light gray eyes blazing through the dim light.

"Foolish boy. You dare defy me?" Voldemort hissed.

Draco did not move.

Voldemort did not hesitate.

"Crucio."

Knives— burning hot— pierced every inch of his skin, every muscle— every joint immobilized with excruciating pain. His skull was split in two.

Voldemort's Cruciatus lasted only a few moments, but when Draco came to upon his hands and knees on the floor of Malfoy Manor's drawing room, he was certain it had been an eternity.

"My Mother— does not deserve—" Draco breathed, his voice ragged and unfamiliar to even himself.

"I will decide what she— and what _you_ — deserve. Your _father_ ," Voldemort spit out the word, as if it tasted foul, "owes me a great debt. I dare say your mother understands this… but it seems you, young Draco, have much to learn."

"My Lord—" Bellatrix whispered, her head bowed low. Both wizards ignored her.

Draco's thoughts were a flurry, he felt as if the ground were shifting beneath him.

"I wish to take on my father's debt, my Lord, to begin repayment for his errors. I— I want to take the Mark," Draco said, as firmly as his voice— and his fear— would allow. His eyes darted to his mother briefly before he slowly rose from the floor. To his immense relief,Voldemort did not stop him, but he made sure to keep his head bowed in subservience. "I wish to serve you. Allow me to prove my loyalty."

There was no other way, Draco was sure of it.

He ventured a glance upward and found Voldemort grinning, his red eyes burning with vile amusement. The effect was grotesque.

"Prove your loyalty—" Voldemort spat. "The apple does not fall far from the tree, I fear… and both seem rotten. You sound _so_ like Lucius; your father made me many promises. Do you wish to share his fate as well?"

The memory of the sight of his father's vacant expression and the sound of his feeble voice echoed through Draco's mind.

"No, my Lord. Let me show you that I do not share my father's weaknesses. I certainly have no desire to follow in his footsteps—"

"Empty words… you are not even of age. What use do you have now, young Draco? I already possess everything your name has afforded you," Voldemort replied icily, gesturing his hand in a sweeping motion to indicate his control over Malfoy Manor, and his mother and aunt too— his family. "How could you possibly serve me?"

Draco glanced at his mother, the crumpled silver trim of her dark gray robes still immobilized on the floor. He wracked his brain for an answer, but none came. It was true, he realized, he had nothing to offer, certainly nothing Voldemort might value.

He was barely sixteen; he hadn't even finished school yet…

Draco sucked in a breath of air, struck by an idea.

"Hogwarts," he whispered. "I— I can get you into Hogwarts."

The sound of Voldemort's maniacal laugh reverberated through the room.

"You are both as weak _and_ as foolish as Lucius."

Draco made every effort to stand firm, even though every inch of his body ached with the lingering effects of Voldemort's torture. He worked to keep his face impassive, to prevent his eyes from straying again to his mother's limp form.

"I know a way," he said, his voice now cool and measured. "It's hidden— I believe even from Dumbledore."

Voldemort's eyes flashed to him as quickly as he'd cast his Crucio, and Draco resisted every urge to look away, suddenly feeling as though he were stupefied. The sight of the Vanishing Cabinets at Hogwarts and Borgin and Burkes— the faintly carved Runes etched on their doors— rushed to the forefront of his mind unhindered, along with the memory of his fellow Slytherin, Montague, lost for weeks after he'd been shoved inside one of them.

 _He's reading my mind,_ Draco realized. _Legilimency._

Voldemort grinned, but this time with eerie pleasure.

"Perhaps you may be more useful than your father after all… Bellatrix—"Voldemort's gaze swept right over Narcissa to land on Draco's wide-eyed aunt, "—remove yourself from this room, and take your sister with you—"

"But, my Lord—" Bellatrix pleaded, her wild dark eyes glancing from Voldemort to Draco and back again.

Draco looked away. Bellatrix had been absent from the great majority of his life, nothing more than a glimmer of pain in his mother's eyes throughout his childhood, and now that she _was_ a part of his life, he rather wished she weren't.

He knew his mother still cared for her sister despite Bellatrix's impulsiveness, her clear— yet undeniably cruel— magical prowess, her unbridled desire to become Voldemort's right hand, and her obvious madness, but it was only now that Draco realized his own indifference to her.

"Do you wish to take on some of the retribution for your brother-in-law's failure? Perhaps you miss the walls of Azkaban?"

"No— I— forgive me, M—"

"Take her and leave us! And tell Wormtail to summon Severus at once. We must initiate our newest Death Eater as soon as possible. Tonight."

"Thank you, My Lord," Draco replied, bowing low. Relief coursed through his veins as a sulking Bellatrix levitated his mother from the room.

"You are young, Draco, but so was I when I set off on my road to power. I see your thirst, your ambition— follow me, and you may achieve greatness. But you will find a life sentence in Azkaban preferable to the fate that will await you and your dear mother should you fail me… or betray me."

Draco was unaware of the sting of his own fingernails digging into his palms, his relief now overshadowed by his anger— his hatred.

"Yes, My Lord. I will not fail you."

/


	2. Narcissus

/

Andromeda Tonks emerged from a treatment room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries feeling equally exhausted and satisfied. The session with her patient had been lengthy, but she could proudly describe it overall as successful.

She gently closed the door behind her and slowly opened her palm, surprised to find the silvery locket shone clear and bright even in the dim greenish light of the hallway. The locket was her patient's, one of the only possessions the woman had arrived with the first day she'd appeared in the lobby of St. Mungo's all those years ago, but it was only now that her patient was beginning to demonstrate any signs of recognition of the item.

Even though Andromeda could describe every detail of the locket, both inside and out, she gently unclasped the small oval as she'd done countless times before to run her fingertip over the tiny painting hidden within. She'd scrutinized the painting of the baby so many times that she felt as though she could describe the features of the baby's face as well as the face of her own daughter. Andromeda closed the locket and sighed, tucking it safely back into her pocket.

She'd been working with this particular patient for over fifteen years now, but her true identity and history were still as uncertain as the baby's in the locket. Andromeda was never one to be deterred, however, nor to give up. Her continued efforts with this patient was only now beginning to make progress; bits of pattern and brief moments of clarity had begun to take shape.

It was one session over the ongoing course of many, as was common with most of her patients, but it was progress nonetheless— slow but steady progress; with her caseload, that was the best she could aim for, and felt no shame at saying so. It was the reality of her field.

From a very young age, despite her family's protestations and bewilderment, Andromeda had an obsession with the magical art of Healing, an obsession rivaled only by her fascination with the wonders of the body and mind.

When she had graduated from Hogwarts, Andromeda had no doubt she wanted to become a Healer. She'd started at St. Mungo's no more than two weeks after graduating, then completed her general Healer training over the course of four arduous years. She'd simultaneously completed general Muggle medical study, with the addition of eight more frenzied years of research, study, clinical work, and fellowships, both magical and Muggle. As difficult and sleep-deprived as those years had been, she'd found happiness in them; in the collaboration of the Magical and Muggle worlds, equalized by shared goals— to understand, to heal.

It was now more than thirty years after her graduation from Hogwarts; thirty years of dedication to healing. And while Andromeda continued to practice general healing at every level of care, she'd come to specialize in the research of the properties of the blood of witches and wizards, and— her more preferred work— the healing of the mind.

It would be a lie to say she left work each day feeling as though she'd been successful, and an outright delusion to believe she made a significant positive difference on each of her patients every day, but there were certainly days when progress was marked and success clear; as she climbed the stairs to her small office on the fifth floor, she felt today would be one of those days… until she spotted two wizards, striking in quite contradictory ways, sitting outside her office door.

"Healer Tonks, it's a pleasure to see you again."

"I'm hoping to say the same about your visit," Andromeda said as she wearily eyed the wizard's gloomy companion, "And it's Andromeda— you don't mind, do you Albus… Severus?"

"Certainly not, considering it's the preferred method of addressing one's communication partner here at St. Mungo's, is it not?" Dumbledore said, turning briefly to address his companion. "It helps to break barriers between healers and patients."

Severus Snape merely nodded his agreement in silence.

Andromeda nodded as well, finding it difficult to look away from the familiar twinkle in Dumbledore's blue eyes. She unlocked her office door, and gestured for them to follow.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Andromeda said, gesturing to the vacant chairs on the other side of her desk. "Although, the state of those chairs— budget cuts, you know… I'm not sure now much comfort they realistically provide."

"Thank you," Dumbledore said, following her lead.

"Tea?" She asked, having already conjured the set, complete with three cups.

"Lovely, that is of course Earl Gray I detect. But it must be blended—"

Andromeda smiled and nodded. She did love her tea. "Rose petals, lavender, and rosemary."

"How delightful," Dumbledore praised as the steaming pot poured a portion of its contents into his cup.

Snape merely cleared his throat. Andromeda narrowed her eyes in his direction.

Andromeda was confident in her ability to _read_ people, to see their thoughts, the reasons for their choices. And while her daughter, Nymphadora, was an open book— a person who wore her thoughts and emotions in ten different colors right on her sleeve, not so unlike her father, Ted— Andromeda acknowledged, took pride, that she herself was quite the opposite. The man in front of her seemed quite her equal in this regard. Severus Snape always been difficult for her to read; not simply a closed book, but a closed book bound by rope, stacked neatly along an enclosed case, behind a locked door.

Andromeda respected Dumbledore, but felt him quite the fool for trusting Snape so fully. Admittedly, she also found herself impatient in the majority of her dealings with the Headmaster, her former professor— she regarded him at times as necessarily obtuse, aloof. There was no room for these qualities in her line of work.

"Quite right, Severus, we do not wish to take up too much of Andromeda's valuable time."

"Nonsense, Albus—" she protested.

"No, no, we arrived unannounced, the very least we could do is respect your time and hospitality."

Dumbledore took a moment to pointedly scan the perimeter of the room with his twinkling blue eyes. Andromeda understood.

"There are no wards, Albus, but if you prefer—" she said quietly.

Dumbledore nodded his head in appreciation, and although it did not physically appear anything in the room had changed, Andromeda felt the vibrating impact of his strong yet silent wards.

She sipped her tea expectantly.

She didn't bother to question if everything was all right. It was a question she'd stopped asking long ago; if you were at St. Mungo's, certainly everything was _not_ all right. Especially during times of war— and war, she knew, was upon them.

She tried not to think of the loss of her cousin Sirius. In truth, they had not been close for many years, but they'd always pictured themselves as outcasts of the family, and formed a strong bond when they were young. The thought of his passing made her heart ache.

"Frankness, I know, is not in my nature, as Severus would certainly attest—"

"Correct," Snape said. The word contained only two syllables, but somehow, Andromeda thought, the Potions Master's drawl managed to elongate the word.

"But I wonder perhaps if it is in my blood to desire understanding, knowledge. Severus too I should think, evidenced simply by our chosen professions."

Andromeda knew Dumbledore was appealing to her through her own research, the larger body of which focused on so-called 'pureblood' superiority and genetics, as well as the effects of nature and nurture in the magical world, but she did not mind. Over the centuries, the Black family had been the cause of much pain and suffering, and it was Andromeda's personal goal to try to amend for some of that harm, to work toward eradicating pureblood prejudice in the magical world. She appreciated Dumbledore's reference, and, admittedly, the acknowledgement.

"Do you feel you share in this desire, Andromeda? To understand?"

"Albus—"

"Of course you do, it was silly of me to ask. Again, frankness is simply not in my character… so, we are all in agreement of a shared desire to understand, to learn… And this evening, Severus and I have come to ask you to examine the other side of this coin."

Andromeda had an inkling of what Dumbledore was insinuating, in fact, the thought had entered her mind the moment she'd spotted the wizards outside her office door.

"You want me to teach?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said simply before taking a prolonged sip of his tea. "Delightful."

Andromeda mulled over the thought, her face as unreadable as Snape's.

"But what subject? Surely not Charms or Potions-" she looked to Snape.

"No," Severus explained, "Healing."

"Healing?" Andromeda asked curiously. She set her teacup down. She couldn't recall having ever heard of a Healing course at Hogwarts, but she mused it was something she definitely would have appreciated during her own school years— not merely because of her desired career path, but for her own health and well-being.

"It has been taught in the past, although not with any particular frequency," Dumbledore explained.

"Or competency," Snape added dryly.

Andromeda could admit Dumbledore's offer was tempting.

The Headmaster was right; she shared his desire to learn, to understand, and equally, to _share_ her knowledge. It perhaps explained why she took on so many fellows each year. She considered her current responsibilities; her patients and their families, her _own_ family- Nymphadora, who was still healing from the conflict at the Department of Mysteries, and Ted of course— her medical fellows, her research, her ever-increasing mountain of paperwork…

"I don't have the time, I'm sorry." Andromeda was not one to make excuses simply for politeness. She was also not the type of person who had issue with saying 'no.'

"I thought you may say so, but I ask you to reconsider. During these times, Hogwarts' students, no matter their house nor upbringing, will need to be prepared… for what, I do not feel the need to elaborate in present company."

"There must be someone else… Madam Pomfrey? Someone else equally as capable."

"I think not, Andromeda," Severus said plainly. If it were said by anyone else, Andromeda might have regarded it as a compliment, but Snape somehow managed to make it sound rather the opposite.

"What I believe Severus intends to portray is that you are best equipped for such a task, considering your ample, and varied, skillset. Not to mention your irrefutably good intentions. Plus, your familiarity with the Order—"

"The Order? What does the Order have to do with teaching? Surely Hogwarts isn't trying to indoctrinate students— after the disaster I heard was last year—"

She'd heard of the Ministry's attempt to infiltrate Hogwarts, and was disgusted by it. She trusted the Ministry about as much as she trusted Severus Snape. Although she agreed with what they stood for, she hoped the Order was not on some mission to drag children into this war.

"War is here," Severus interrupted, "and Hogwarts is not immune… _your nephew_ is not immune."

At the mention of her nephew, Andromeda looked to Dumbledore— knowing she was now doing a poor job of masking her surprise, her trepidation, her fear— searching for further explanation. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in silence. She returned her attention to Snape.

"Yes. Draco, I fear, is in danger—"

"The boy's been in harm's way his entire life, Severus, wouldn't you say?" Andromeda crossed her arms across her chest. "With a father like Lucius."

Snape ignored her.

"Draco has been given a task— one he is meant to fail."

Andromeda felt her heart pound in her ears. She owed the Malfoys, including her sister— although she could barely call her that— nothing. She reasoned any trouble the family found themselves plagued by was certainly of their own doing. She had no connection to Draco beyond blood, beyond a shared history of darkness, pain, and regret. And yet…

"Surely your protection is enough, Severus," Andromeda announced, although she found it impossible to imagine Snape protecting anyone but himself. She uncrossed her arms and straightened in her chair. "Plus, I expect the _Malfoys_ would laugh at the idea of a blood traitor's protection."

"It is my belief that is it currently both naive and unwise to assume _anything_ about the Malfoy family. But that is beside the point. Draco does not trust me—"

"Curious, that," Andromeda interjected, but Snape ignored her.

"If he's to have a chance, he will need to learn to protect his mind."

Snape paused.

"And I believe there is still this chance for Draco, with the right guidance of course… alas time, as it does, presses on," Severus said.

The silence that followed his statement rang through Andromeda's ears, but she remained skeptical and reluctant.

"Narcissa instructed me to give this to you, should our conversation reach this point."

Snape pulled a scroll, neatly rolled and tied with a black ribbon, from his robes and passed it across the desk. Dumbledore looked away as if he had suddenly become extremely interested in the ceiling plaster.

Andromeda eyed the scroll warily.

"He is young, Andromeda, but not for much longer," Snape's sullen voice resounded through the room as his dark eyes met hers. "And I promised your sister I'd keep him safe."

Over the rim of her second, third, and fourth cups of tea, Andromeda stared at the bound letter long after Dumbledore and Snape had left, analyzing their words. When she could think no more, she hastily transported the scroll into her pocket, as if it would poison her should it touch her skin for more than a moment.

She disapparated home just before midnight, but her deliberation was off, and she found herself not inside her home, but in her own back garden, cloaked in darkness, surrounded by the patch of fragrant narcissus she'd planted long ago. A sob escaped her throat as she unfurled the scroll and recognized that her younger sister's elegant script, even after so many years, had not changed.

/

/

Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	3. Greystoke

/

"Young Master Malfoy… what a— pleasure," the head house-elf of Greystoke Castle— the ancestral home of the Burke family, currently in possession of the Notts, ever since the death of the current master's wife— said as he used every ounce of his strength to open the entrance hall's immense oaken doors.

Draco knew Sprock was nothing short of ancient; the elf had served the Nott family since before Theo was born, and Theo's mother's family, the Burkes, for decades before that. But Draco also knew, despite the elf's advanced age, he was deceptively spry and cunning, not unlike the estate's young master, Draco's friend, Theodore Nott.

"Always a pleasure, Sprock. What brings you to the entrance hall these days? Fire another footman? Greeting guests is surely too low a task for your _esteemed_ position."

Draco smirked lopsidedly and swung his broom— his preferred method of travel— over his shoulder as he stepped over the threshold as if he were entering his own home. Sprock regarded him through narrowed eyes. Draco knew quite a bit about the elf, Sprock's distaste for him perhaps best of all.

Draco recalled his much younger self insulting the house-elf with Theo nearby. The next time he left his one of his brooms unattended at Greystoke, he'd found it reduced to nothing more than a smoking pile of twigs.

"It seems we are both out of sorts today, Master Malfoy— your choice to actually respect conventional norms of entry and visiting hours truly surprises this elf. What uncharacteristic propriety."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"Spare me, Sprock. And don't get me started on Theo's regard for _propriety—_ "

"Sprock should warn you, sir, it is unwise to compare yourself to Master Theodore— he a greater wizard than you could ever hope to be," Sprock said brazenly as he beckoned Draco through the entrance hall.

"Your loyalty to Theo always amazes me," Draco said as they passed an absurdly large portrait of said wizard as a baby, a green cap atop his wrinkly bald head.

"Are you claiming Master Theodore does not deserve loyalty? Or perhaps you insinuate _you_ are not a loyal friend to Master Theodore? Most concerning…"

Draco crossed his arms over his chest. The elf had a point.

Theo was a loner at school; quiet, observant. A person who preferred to keep to himself. Outwardly orderly. Calculating and intelligent.

_Theo's too intelligent for his own good,_ Draco thought.

But Draco had come to learn there was much more to Theo the introvert: an unflinching desire to understand; an undeniably witty, caustic humor; a passion for risk-taking; a hidden fear of being made a fool; a repulsion for withheld information; an unyielding stubbornness— not unlike his own— and a fierce loyalty to those he cared for, the caliber of which Draco knew was matched only by his own mother.

At school, he and Draco had been civil to one another over the years, guardedly friendly, quietly respectful. They'd covered for one another on more than one occasion, teamed up when any meaningful group assignments had been required, rolled their eyes in unison at the ignorance of many of their peers.

They'd grown up in each other's orbits, too; their fathers both Death Eaters, and as the youngest heirs to two ancient pureblood families, it had been unavoidable. Draco also wondered if perhaps their mothers had been close. He remembered Narcissa, in a rare moment of vulnerability, when he couldn't have been older than five, unable to speak about Theo's mother's death without her typically composed demeanor shattering to pieces.

It was only recently however, with Voldemort's return, that Draco and Theo's friendship, their loyalty, and their firm trust in each other, had solidified.

Voldemort had forbade Draco and his mother from visiting Lucius in Azkaban, no doubt to add to Lucius' punishment, and it had been Theo who volunteered to secretly transport letters between his parents all summer.

Draco remembered Theo saying, "Gives me an excuse to visit dear old dad— although last visit he was eyeing me like he'd only just remembered I'm his son, y'know, that I look a bit like him… asked if I was any good with glamours, or if knew how to make Polyjuice. I think he was plotting a way to switch our places. Lied and said I had no idea how to brew it, of course."

Draco also remembered when his mother had gotten word Malfoy Manor would be searched by the Ministry. It had been Theo's idea to maneuver a number of valuable, and dark, Malfoy and Black family heirlooms from Malfoy Manor to the extensively shielded, cavernous safe rooms of Greystoke Castle, these days known as Nott Estate.

After detailing his idea to Draco and Narcissa, Theo had said, "Father always said, 'What's the point of all those safe rooms without a Ministry raid? Open the gates!'"

Draco grimaced at the memory of the recent Ministry raid; in hindsight, he would've preferred a Hippogriff hoof to the head.

Sprock and Draco paused at the base of an extravagant stairway, its wooden spindles and railings lined with gold.

"Young Master Malfoy is most subdued today. Is Sprock foolish in hoping this becomes a more common occurrence?"

"Do you really want me to answer that, Sprock?"

"Some say an elf can dare to dream."

Draco rolled his eyes again, but he wouldn't deny he was amused by the elf's wit.

"I'll be in the library," he added as Sprock ascended the stairs, no doubt to retrieve his beloved master.

"'A mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge…'" Sprock chimed, as though he'd said it many times before. "I suggest you get reading, and quickly, Master Malfoy— your sword is looking rather dull."

Draco opened his mouth in retort, but the elf had already disappeared with a barely audible 'pop.'

"House-elves…" Draco muttered, although he could admit he'd never met an elf quite like Sprock before. The elves at Malfoy Manor had always been sickeningly subservient, frightened into general silence by a long history of wrath of Masters Malfoy. Admittedly, Draco had never been particularly kind to any of them himself, but he supposed he'd never really had reason to be.

_"You mean except for the 'small' task of feeding you, mending your disturbingly large wardrobe, and making sure the loo is so spotless your ugly face shines back at you every time you go to take a piss?"_ A voice that sounded very much like Theo's answered in his head.

Draco shook his head as he turned to make his way toward the library, his broom still slung over his shoulder.

The library at Malfoy Manor was large, but the one at Greystoke Castle reduced it to nothing more than a broom cupboard in comparison. The sheer quantity of texts was beyond comprehension.

Draco inhaled deeply as he lifted the latch of the library's familiar arched iron door, his senses pleasantly assaulted with the overwhelming scent of parchment and leather as he stepped through.

The estate's library was located in a turret that was four stories high, on the west side of the grand structure. A spiraling staircase wound along the room's edge, all the way to the top floor, which housed a study furnished in rich mahogany, its upholstery and carpets a rich green.

Draco mounted his broom and gently pushed off from the stone floor. He passed narrow, arched windows, dormant floating lanterns, shelves upon shelves of books of every color, size, and age, and ladders that had no right to be quite so tall as he rose ever higher, shielding his eyes from the bursts of the blindingly warm light of a fading mid-August sunset.

The library had been Draco's refuge this summer, and he'd escaped to its welcoming walls as often as he'd been able— at times in the dead of night, as Sprock had eluded to earlier. Theo, who'd long ago made the library his own refuge, encouraged Draco's new interest, and had even gone so far as to designate a desk space for him.

Draco appreciated the gesture, which Theo had done without fanfare, but he used the mahogany desk space only on occasion, preferring to do his reading while lounging on a railing, or mid-air on his broom, as he did now, flipping through Theo's most recent literary recommendation. Draco lost himself in the text, interrupted only when he heard Theo's voice call from the floor far below.

"Sprock will murder me if he has to clean your splattered remains from this rug— it's Persian, and I think it's at least three hundred years old!"

Theo's light brown hair was long and disheveled on top, but cut short and neat on the sides, as if a testament to his character— the seeming contrast between his inward and outward selves.

Draco's eyes wandered from his book to find it was now nearly dark outside the turret's windows, the fiery light from earlier transformed into a vibrant violet. The library's floating lanterns were now alight with warm, flickering candlelight.

"We both know he'd finish the task with delight," Draco said, snapping his book closed as he descended to meet Theo, who was now climbing the spiraling staircase on foot.

"You've got a point," Theo shrugged. "Finish that one yet?" He pointed to the book in Draco's hand.

"Just about," Draco replied, tucking said book under his arm.

"Good," said Theo as he paused to climb a ladder with learned agility, easily skipping two rungs at a time. "I've got another one for you."

"I think Sprock's going to be cleaning _your_ splattered remains from the carpet one of these days."

"Nothing the elf can't handle. Here—" Theo plucked a small book from the desired shelf and tossed it to Draco over his shoulder.

Draco caught the leather-bound book in one hand with ease, but winced at the stab of pain in his forearm.

"Am I going to need a Calming Draught for this one too?" Draco ran his hand over the smooth burgundy cover and tried to ignore the throbbing ache of his Dark Mark.

His discomfort did not go unnoticed by Theo.

"I figured you would've built up a bit of a tolerance by now… to the literature _and_ your Mark," Theo said before he nimbly slid down the ladder.

Draco rolled his eyes. "It's fine."

"Right. And my dear incarcerated dad is about to walk through that door with his dementor friends and ask us to join them in the garden for a game of toss the Quaffle."

"Crazier things _have_ happened… the amount of 'O's you somehow managed to achieve, for instance… except Runes, of course," Draco smirked, one corner of his mouth raising higher than the other. Draco knew that although Theo would never admit it, he cared about grades nearly as much— if not more so— as Hermione Granger.

"You're just upset I got one more 'O' than you. Also, I resent that— Babbling couldn't tell a quintupled from an acromantula."

"I think Professor Babbling knows a thing or two about Runes, she's about as ancient as the majority of them." Draco shook his head sarcastically, "Excuses, excuses, Theo. What a shame. Always second best to Granger—"

"Don't make me shut your mouth for you— I'm of age now, you know," replied Theo as he leaned his elbows on the railing to address Draco, who still casually floated on his broom.

"Speaking of that— here—" Draco pulled a small sack from his pocket and tossed it to Theo. "Enlarge that, would you? Some of us are still sixteen."

"The wards at the Manor still down?"

"Some, unfortunately— bloody Ministry raid…" Draco muttered, his jaw clenched in irritation. Luckily, thanks to Theo's intervention, the Ministry's raid of his home for Dark objects had been fruitless, but Draco and his mother had been forced to lower the Manor's wards in preparation. They had yet to fully reinstate them all. It was tricky work, with Draco unable to perform magic without alerting the Ministry… and with his mother who, despite her stony determination to continue on as though nothing had happened, had not yet fully recovered from Voldemort's Cruciatus.

"I'll come by tomorrow to give Sissy a _helping hand_ , you know, now that I'm of age," Theo winked.

Draco scowled at the innuendo and Theo's use of his mother's nickname, the one otherwise used only by his Aunt Bellatrix. Draco let it slide, but grudgingly.

"The bag—"

Theo nodded and tapped his wand on the sack, which immediately expanded to its regular size.

"Summon _Theory of Numerology_ , would you?"

Theo arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Numerology, eh? Full of surprises tonight—"

"I'm glad to be rid of it. Happy birthday."

Theo grinned and poked his head into the bag's opening. "What've you got in here? A small village?" He retreated, then pointed his wand inside the sack. "Accio _Theory of Numerology_."

A hefty, worn tome appeared suddenly from the sack, knocking Theo backward into a bookshelf; he lost his hold on the bag in the process and it tumbled over the railing.

Draco set his broom into a deep dive, rushing forward with keen adeptness to catch his now free-falling bag. As he grasped it in his outstretched hand, the sack reverberated with resounding clatters and thuds.

"There goes my organization," Draco sighed. Theo ignored him, too engrossed in the book he'd just summoned.

"First edition? This book's at least five hundred years old… where did you—"

"The Manor. I looked around for the oldest, most boring looking—"

"You're really selling this, Draco. Anyone ever tell you how thoughtful you are?"

"I can take it back if—"

"It would be gross negligence to put this book back in your possession," Theo interrupted, his tone serious. He paused at the sight of Draco's growing smirk. "Arsehole."

"You're welcome," replied Draco, shoving the small leather-bound book Theo had given him into the bag, along with the book he'd nearly finished.

"Staying for dinner?"

"Only if you taste everything first— I'm still waiting for the day Sprock finally decides he's had enough of me."

/


	4. The Necklace

/

_Everything changes,_ Hermione thought as she walked through the largely deserted Diagon Alley with Harry and Ron and noted the typically colorful, glittering window displays of spellbooks, potion ingredients, and cauldrons were hidden now behind the large Ministry of Magic posters that had been pasted over them.

She was as familiar with this truth as the countless other truths stored in her brilliant mind. Hermione knew some changes were grand, while others small, but they were changes regardless of scope… and she knew they were happening all the time, everywhere, constantly, second by second.

Never had she felt the impact of change in her own life so acutely until this year, however, and it was only just this summer when she realized the number of changes in her life seemed to be growing exponentially.

As she observed her current reflection— a reflection she was still getting used to— warbled by the tinted glass of a shop window, Hermione realized she was just barely beginning to understand change, particularly the changes in the world around her.

She understood war was upon them, and accepted that she'd likely have a significant part to play.

Hermione wasn't one to inflate her self worth, though. _Everyone's role is important in one way or another,_ she thought, brushing an errant curl behind her ear.

She considered that particular lesson had been made abundantly clear with her use of the time-turner, and felt a pang in her chest at the memory of Sirius. Admittedly, she hadn't known him considerably well, but well enough, she felt… enough to know that he'd been Harry's connection to the family he'd never known, to see that they'd created a bond; and that in itself had made Hermione happy.

She knew they all felt his loss acutely, Harry most of all, and despite her gentleness, her unflinching support of her best friend, he was clear in his avoidance of the topic of his recently departed godfather. In fact, she rather felt Harry was doing his best to avoid change, Voldemort, the war, and the role she rather suspected he already knew he would have to play.

She couldn't fault him; the thought of change and war was frightening, even after everything they'd already been through. But what frightened Hermione most was the undeniable loss of control that came with the change— her increasing inability to be sure her knowledge and choices would lead to desired results.

Hermione was beginning to see that with unfettered change came less clarity, a decreased grasp on what was truth, and what wasn't, to see that choice, at best, was most often gray.

But she was determined to make the right choices… or at least to try.

She'd always used rationality, the belief that there was a right answer among all the wrong ones, as a crutch; her mother, knowing her daughter well, had always told her, 'Not everything is black and white, or good or bad. All you can do is try to learn as much as you can, and make educated choices.'

_Easier said than done, especially when your best friends are these two._ Hermione smirked to herself at the echo of her mother's words in her mind, shaking her head as Harry and Ron's reflections appeared beside her in the Madam Malkin's shop window. They'd changed too of course, inside and out, but it was particularly noticeable in their physical appearances; they were both taller, broader.

"Migh' be a bit of a squeeze in there with all o' us," said Hagrid, bending down to peer through the window as well. "I'll stand guard outside, all righ'?" Along with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny, Hagrid had joined them on their journey for school supply shopping in Diagon Alley.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the little shop together. It appeared, at first glance, to be empty, but no sooner had the door swung shut behind them than Hermione heard a familiar voice issuing from behind a rack of dress robes.

"... not a child, in case you haven't noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone."

Hermione recognized the voice immediately; Draco Malfoy. She felt Harry and Ron tense beside her as they recognized his voice as well. She glanced uncertainly at Harry's hand as it twitched for his wand.

She groaned inwardly. The last thing they needed at the moment was a confrontation.

There was a clucking noise and a voice Hermione recognized as that of Madam Malkin, the owner, said, "Now, dear, your mother's quite right, none of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own anymore, it's nothing to do with being a child—"

Hermione watched as Draco appeared from behind the rack, his striking white-blond hair contrasting with a handsome set of dark green robes that glittered with pins around the hem and the edges of the sleeves. It was clear to Hermione he'd experienced a growth spurt similar to Harry's since she'd last seen him. He strode confidently toward the mirror and examined himself, unaware of their presence.

Draco's gaze shifted, and his eyes briefly met Hermione's in the mirror's reflection. In the moment before he realized just _whose_ gaze he was staring into, Hermione saw his light gray eyes were bright, despite a frame of darkened shadows, and his facial features had matured since she'd last seen him; his jaw was more defined, his cheek bones more pronounced.

To Hermione's consternation, she had to admit that— perhaps if he were _not_ Draco Malfoy— his appearance was striking, and pleasantly so.

The instant passed, however, as he realized who was in the shop with him. Draco hastily shifted his gaze to Harry and Ron beside her, and his eyes narrowed with displeasure at the sight of them.

Beside her, Hermione sensed both Harry and Ron gripping their wands tightly, and withheld the urge to roll her eyes. Malfoy, however, did not resist this urge.

"Just when I thought I was about to have an enjoyable afternoon," Draco sighed sarcastically.

"I don't want wands drawn in my shop!" Said Madam Malkin, spotting Harry and Ron's offensive stances as she scurried out from behind the clothes rack holding a tape measure and a wand.

"Don't— honestly, it's not worth it," Hermione whispered, hoping to steer clear of a conflict.

"The relative voice of reason— stress on the _relative,_ " sneered Draco as he looked pointedly to Harry, then Ron. His eyes found Hermione's again, and she wanted nothing more than to leave the shop.

"Who blacked your eye, Granger?" He paused. "I want to send them flowers."

Hermione frowned, but found the insult rather weak, particularly for Malfoy. She wondered if recent events— namely his father's imprisonment— had lost him some of his zeal.

"That's quite enough!" said Madam Malkin sharply, looking over her shoulder for support. "Madam—please—"

Hermione followed Malkin's gaze and with surprise watched as Narcissa Malfoy glided out from behind the clothes rack. The woman was pale yet poised, her face unreadable. Hermione noted she seemed to emit a natural air of equal elegance and intensity.

"Put those away," she said coldly to Harry and Ron. "If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do."

"Really?" Said Harry, taking a step forward. "Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?"

Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart."Really, you shouldn't accuse... dangerous thing to say... wands away, please!"

But Harry did not lower his wand. Narcissa Malfoy smiled unpleasantly.

Hermione appreciated Harry standing up for her, but felt it was wholly unnecessary. Malfoy and his mother weren't about to attack in the middle of Madam Malkin's— they weren't fools. Hermione was unable to withhold her gnawing urge to roll her eyes any longer.

"Harry—" she whispered with an exasperated sigh.

"I see that being Dumbledore's favorite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you."

Hermione sensed there was something more to her comment that was not necessarily a threat.

_Was that a warning?_

_No,_ Hermione thought, _she must be referring to what happened in the Department of Mysteries._

"Wow... look at that... he's not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!" Harry jeered.

Hermione felt Harry's insult was juvenile, and a bit uncalled for. Her understanding of Lucius Malfoy was that of a bigoted, arrogant, and dangerous man, and even though she'd been pleased to learn of his incarceration, glancing again at the clear fatigue and stress visible beneath Malfoy's eyes, and Narcissa's weary expression, Hermione quite suspected Lucius' imprisonment paled in comparison to the _other_ repercussions of his failure— to Voldemort's control and wrath. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought.

"Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!" Malfoy snarled.

"It's all right, Draco," said Narcissa calmly, her face still indecipherable as she placed her thin white fingers upon his shoulder, a gentler act than Hermione had ever expected of a Malfoy, and which gave her pause. "As the Mudblood mentioned, they are not worth our time."

Hermione winced, not because of Narcissa's use of the foul word, but because Harry had raised his wand higher.

"Harry, no!" She moaned, grabbing his arm and attempting to push it down by his side. " _Think..._ you mustn't… you'll be in such trouble..."

Madam Malkin dithered for a moment on the spot, then seemed to decide to act as though nothing was happening in the hope that it wouldn't. She bent toward Malfoy, who was still glaring at Harry.

"I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just..."

Malfoy groaned suddenly, as if in pain, and pushed her hand away. Hermione watched the exchange with curiosity.

"Watch where you're putting your pins! Mother, I don't think I want these anymore." He pulled the robes over his head and tossed them into Madam Malkin's arms.

"You're right, Draco," said Narcissa, with a contemptuous glance at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, "now I know the kind of scum that shops here... We'll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting's."

And with that, the pair of them strode out of the shop, Draco taking care to bang as hard as he could into Ron on the way out.

"Well, really!" Said Madam Malkin, snatching up the fallen robes and moving the tip of her wand over them like a vacuum cleaner, so that it removed all the dust.

She was distracted all through the fitting of Ron's and Harry's new robes, tried to sell Hermione wizard's dress robes instead of witch's (although she hardly noticed, consumed by the way Malfoy had winced as if in pain at Malkin's touch on his left arm), and when she finally bowed them out of the shop it was with an air of being glad to see the back of them.

"Got ev'rything?" asked Hagrid brightly when they reappeared at his side.

"Just about," said Harry. "Did you see the Malfoys?"

"Yeah," said Hagrid, unconcerned. "But they wouldn' dare make trouble in the middle o' Diagon Alley, Harry. Don' worry about them."

Hermione shot pointed looks Harry and Ron's way as if to say 'I told you so,' but before she could speak, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny appeared, all clutching heavy packages of books.

"Everyone all right?" said Mrs. Weasley. "Got your robes? Right then, we can pop in at the Apothecary and Eeylops on the way to Fred and George's... stick close, now..."

They all bought items for their new class, Healing, which was now mandatory for all sixth and seventh year students. Hermione was excited at the prospect of a a topic she expected to be both useful and challenging. She had quite the lengthy supply list for Potions as well.

In comparison, Harry and Ron's lists were brief; they had not achieved the grade to continue studying Potions. Despite his loathing of Snape, Hermione knew Harry was disappointed he hadn't earned the marks he'd needed to continue with N.E.W.T.-level Potions; a class which was a prerequisite for becoming an Auror.

Their supply shopping complete, Mrs. Weasley checked her watch every minute or so as they headed farther along the street in search of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

Fred and George's shop was packed with customers, and Harry and Hermione quickly lost sight of Ron, Ginny, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley once inside (Hagrid, due to his stature, waited outside). They stared around, looking up at the vibrant technicolor boxes piled to the ceiling; Hermione was impressed by the sheer variety and organization of it all, but part of her groaned inwardly at the thought of all the new things she'd likely have to confiscate as a Prefect this year.

She managed to squeeze them through to a large display near the counter, where she began pretending to read the information on the back of a box bearing a highly colored picture of a handsome youth and a swooning girl who were standing on the deck of a pirate ship.

Hermione found herself quite unable to focus on the text however, not merely because of the dizzying, dazzling assortment of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced, and shrieked, but because she could not stop replaying their exchange with the Malfoys in Madam Malkin's; the way Narcissa had placed her hand— _had it been tenderly?_ — atop Draco's shoulder, the way he'd grimaced at Malkin's touch upon his left forearm, and the darkening and the new weariness — _or was it fear?_ — in his typically over-confident expression…

A sudden 'bang!' from somewhere in the shop tore her away from her thoughts, and she looked up to see Harry eying her quizzically.

"Didn't think you'd be into that sort of thing, Hermione," Harry said, gesturing to the box in her hands.

She returned her gaze to said box, and actually read this time:

_"'Patented Daydream Charms' "_

_"'One simple incantation and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable (side effects include vacant expression and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens'._

She laughed, looking up at Harry again and said, "You know, that really is extraordinary magic!"

"For that, Hermione," said a voice behind them, "you can have one for free."

A beaming Fred stood before them, wearing a set of magenta robes that clashed magnificently with his flaming hair.

"What's happened to your eye, Hermione?"

"What— oh," she said, lightly touching her cheek below the affected eye, her mind again returning to Madam Malkin's, and Malfoy's comment. "Your punching telescope," she said ruefully, remembering the incident at the Burrow a few days ago when one of Fred and George's prototypes had given her quite the surprise.

"Oh blimey, I forgot about those," said Fred. "Here..."

He pulled a tub out of his pocket and handed it to her; she unscrewed it gingerly to reveal a thick yellow paste.

_I think I'll take the bruise,_ Hermione thought, grimacing at the sight of the paste.

"Just dab it on, that bruise'll be gone within the hour," said Fred. "We had to find a decent bruise-remover. We're testing most of our products on ourselves."

"It's safe, isn't it?" she asked hesitantly.

"Course it is," said Fred bracingly. "Come on, Harry, I'll give you a tour."

Harry left her dabbing her black eye with the paste and followed Fred toward the back of the shop. Thankfully, it felt better than it looked.

When her eye was sufficiently soothed, she screwed the cap back on the tub, and again busied her mind with the memory from Madam Malkin's.

She didn't realize she'd been staring blankly at the Daydream display case for some time until Ginny sidled up beside her.

Hermione noticed her friend's eyebrows raise in surprise as a playful grin graced her lips.

"Hermione— seems like you've got _quite_ the plans for this term."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but smiled. "You sound like Harry— I was just appreciating the complexity of the magic."

"Riiight," teased Ginny, elbowing her lightly in the side, "thinking of purchasing one— or a few, y'know, for _personal_ study?"

"Ginny—" Hermione's admonishment, and grudging smile, were interrupted by Harry and Fred's return.

"Haven't you found our special WonderWitch products yet?" asked Fred. "Follow me, ladies..."

They met up with Mrs. Weasley and Ron, his arms leaden with goods, before reaching a display near the window.

The display was adorned with an array of violently pink products around which a cluster of excited girls was giggling enthusiastically. Hermione shot Ginny a wary look and was pleased to see Ginny wore a matching grimace.

"There you go," said Fred proudly. "Best range of love potions you'll find anywhere."

Hermione frowned, unable to imagine the level of desperation one would require to use a love potion.

"Do they work?" Ginny asked, her expression full of skepticism.

"Certainly they work, for up to twenty-four hours at a time depending on…"

But his voice faded away from Hermione's consciousness as Mrs. Weasley moved to inspect the item more closely, affording her an unimpeded view out of the window.

To Hermione's surprise, she saw Malfoy hurrying up the street, alone. As he passed Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, he glanced over his shoulder. Seconds later, he moved beyond the scope of the window and she lost sight of him.

"Did you see—" she whispered to Harry and Ron.

Harry nodded. "Wonder where his mummy is?"

"Given her the slip by the looks of it," said Ron.

"Why, though?" she asked, her curiosity again piqued.

Hermione glanced around. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were now bending over fluffy pink creatures called Pygmy Puffs. Mr. Weasley was delightedly examining a pack of Muggle marked playing cards. Fred and George were both helping customers. On the other side of the glass, Hagrid was standing with his back to them, looking up and down the street.

"Harry— the Cloak—" she whispered, a plan taking shape in her mind.

Harry looked at her in surprise, but nodded silently, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of his bag.

"Come on," Ron said.

She hesitated for a second, thinking perhaps she should be listening more to her reason than her curiosity, but then she hastily ducked under the Cloak with Harry and Ron. Thankfully, nobody seemed to notice them vanish; they were all too interested in Fred and George's products. They squeezed their way out of the door as quickly as they could, but by the time they gained the street, Malfoy had disappeared just as successfully as they had.

"He was going in that direction," murmured Harry as quietly as possible, so that Hagrid wouldn't hear them. "C'mon..."

They scurried along, peering left and right, through shop windows and doors, until Hermione pointed ahead.

"That's him, isn't it?" she whispered, spotting a glimpse of Malfoy's blond head. "Turning left?"

"Big surprise," whispered Ron. "Knockturn Alley."

_Of course,_ Hermione thought, _where else would be be going?_

They watched as Draco glanced around, then slid into Knockturn Alley and out of sight.

"Quick, or we'll lose him," said Harry, speeding up.

"Our feet'll be seen!" she said anxiously as the cloak flapped a little around their ankles, noting that it was much more difficult hiding all three of them under the cloak nowadays.

"It doesn't matter," said Harry impatiently. "Just hurry!"

Knockturn Alley looked completely deserted. Hermione peered into windows as they passed, but none of the shops seemed to have any customers at all. She reasoned it was a bit of a giveaway in these dangerous and suspicious times to buy Dark artifacts... or at least, to be _seen_ buying them.

_So what's Malfoy doing here?_ She wondered. _What an idiot._

It wasn't long before she spotted him again.

"Look! He's in there!" She breathed in Harry's ear.

They had drawn level with Borgin and Burkes, and there in the midst of the cases of skulls, glimmering jewelry, and old bottles stood Malfoy with his back to them, just visible beyond a large black cabinet. Judging by the movements of Malfoy's hands, Hermione could tell he was talking animatedly. The proprietor of the shop, Mr. Borgin, an oily-haired, stooping man, stood facing Malfoy. She could see he wore a curious expression of mingled resentment and fear.

"I wish we could hear what they're saying!" she said, frustrated.

"We can!" said Ron excitedly. "Hang on—damn."

He dropped a couple of the boxes he was still clutching from Fred and George's shop as he fumbled with the largest.

"Extendable Ears, look!"

"Fantastic!" she said, feeling hope bubble inside her as Ron unraveled the long, flesh-colored strings and began to feed them toward the bottom of the door. "Oh, I hope the door isn't Imperturbable—"

"No!" said Ron gleefully. "Listen!"

They put their heads together and listened intently to the ends of the strings, through which Malfoy's voice could be heard loud and clear, as though a radio had been turned on.

"... you know how to fix it?"

"Possibly," said Borgin, in a tone that suggested he was unwilling to commit himself. "I'll need to see it, though. Why don't you bring it into the shop?"

"I can't," said Malfoy. "It's got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it."

Hermione saw Borgin lick his lips nervously, then turned her gaze back to Malfoy. She wished she could see his face.

"Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn't guarantee anything."

"No?" said Malfoy, and Hermione knew, just by his tone, that he was sneering. "Perhaps this will make you more confident."

He moved toward Borgin and was blocked from view by the cabinet. Hermione led them to shuffle sideways to try and keep him in sight, but all they could see was Borgin, now looking very frightened.

Hermione was suddenly stuck by her own feeling of how odd it was to see someone actually frightened— by _Draco Malfoy_. She'd always felt his bark had been worse than his bite— mostly talk, and little action.

_Well,_ Hermione admitted to herself, remembering his duel with Harry in second year and his role in Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad, _maybe not always._

A man likely accustomed to interacting with all sorts of unsavory characters, Hermione reasoned that Borgin's fear of Malfoy had a significantly more serious implication.

_But what kind of implication?_ Hermione wondered as she again remembered the way Malfoy had pulled his left arm away from Madam Malkin, as if it had pained him.

_It couldn't be. Malfoy? A Death Eater?_

"Tell anyone," said Malfoy, "and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He'll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention."

Hermione grimaced at the mention of Greyback, a notorious werewolf who was known for making sport of turning children into werewolves.

"There will be no need for—"

"I'll decide that," said Malfoy. "Well, I'd better be off. And don't forget to keep that one safe, I'll need it."

"Perhaps you'd like to take it now?"

"No, of course I wouldn't, you stupid, little man, how would I look carrying that down the street? Just don't sell it."

"Of course not... sir."

Borgin made a bow as deep as the one Hermione imagined he'd likely given Lucius Malfoy in the past. It almost seemed to her that he'd taken his father's place.

"Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my mother, understand?"

_Why would he want to hide something from his mother?_ Hermione wondered, recalling the way Narcissa had reacted in Madam Malkin's, particularly the gentle way she'd placed her hand on his shoulder— it was clear to Hermione that she was deeply protective of her only son.

"Naturally, naturally," murmured Borgin, bowing again.

Next moment, the bell over the door tinkled loudly as Malfoy stalked out of the shop looking very pleased with himself. He passed so close to her that she felt the cloak flutter around her knees again, and she found it infuriatingly impossible to ignore the simultaneously fresh, warm, and woody scent that wafted past her nose.

She shook her head, returning her attention to the shop. Inside, Borgin remained frozen; his unctuous smile had vanished; he looked worried.

"What was that about?" whispered Ron, reeling in the Extendable Ears.

"Dunno," said Harry. "He wants something mended... and he wants to reserve something in there... Could you see what he pointed at when he said 'that one'?"

"No, he was behind that cabinet—"

"You two stay here," Hermione interrupted, a haphazard plan taking shape in the midst of her racing thoughts.

"What are you—?"

But Hermione had already ducked out from under the cloak. She checked her hair in the reflection in the glass, then marched into the shop, setting the bell tinkling again. She knew her plan was hasty, half-baked, but she had to act fast.

Hermione did not greet Borgin, but out of the corner of her eye she saw him cast her a suspicious look. She strolled through the jumble of objects on display, hoping to portray as casual an air as possible.

"Is this necklace for sale?" she asked, pausing beside a glass-fronted case inside which was an ornate opal necklace.

She glanced at the label; 'Cursed,' it read.

"If you've got one and a half thousand Galleons," said Mr. Borgin coldly.

"Oh — er— no, I haven't got quite that much," said Hermione, walking on. "And... what about this lovely— um— skull?"

"Sixteen Galleons."

"So it's for sale, then? It isn't being... kept for anyone?"

Mr. Borgin squinted at her, and Hermione had the nasty feeling he knew exactly what she was up to. She suddenly threw caution to the wind.

"The thing is, that— er— boy who was in here just now, Draco Malfoy, well, he's a friend of mine, and I want to get him a birthday present, but if he's already reserved anything, I obviously don't want to get him the same thing, so... um..."

It was a pretty lame story in her own opinion, but the words just tumbled from her lips. She saw Borgin open his mouth, and prepared herself to be thrown out, but he was interrupted as the bell above the door again sounded and someone entered the shop.

She glanced toward the door and froze, her breath catching in her throat. It was Malfoy.

"Borgin, I forgot—" Draco started, stopping abruptly as he spotted her.

With a sickening jolt, she saw amusement, and a clear _knowingness_ in Malfoy's gray eyes; it was clear he knew she'd followed him. His face was not nearly as unreadable as his mother's, but it was equally as composed. Hermione's heart raced as her mind frantically considered escape plans. She felt her cheeks warm.

"Well, well… what do we have here? Borgin, do I have to consider taking my business elsewhere? I thought you served a much more— _refined—_ clientele."

"Malfoy— sir— I…" Borgin stuttered, fear returning to his eyes at Draco's presence and the threatening tone in his voice.

"This— girl, er— lady…" Borgin stuttered, his eyes darting between herself and Malfoy, obviously unsure of their level of acquaintance. It was clear Borgin did not wish to incense Malfoy further by a slip of the tongue. "I was about to show her out, she was asking a lot of questions. Said she knows you. Is it true?"

"I can't say I'm surprised she resorted to name-dropping," Malfoy sneered. "But yes, it's true we are acquainted— rather unfortunately."

Draco shot a glare in Hermione's direction, which she returned in kind.

"I'm done browsing… I'll just be going—" Hermione tried to make her voice confident as she quickly moved toward the exit, simultaneously reaching for her wand, but Malfoy extended his arm, blocking her path; he used his strength to hook his arm around her waist, pinning her arm to her side in the process leaving her unable to reach for her wand.

He edged them both closer to a glass display case, Borgin frowning on the other side.

"And what, may I ask, was _she_ so interested in purchasing?" Malfoy inquired, scanning the display case.

Hermione recognized the deepening threat in his voice. Her mind raced again with jumbled fragments of escape plans, none making themselves whole.

Borgin looked from Hermione to Malfoy with a mixture of surprise, confusion, and impatience. "Said she was interested in purchasing a _birthday gift_ for you."

A devilish lopsided grin spread across Malfoy's face, the one that had always made her feel wholly incensed… and uncomfortable.

"Oh, _did_ she? I see Weasley's boundless wit is rubbing off on you, Granger— suppose it was only a matter of time. Where are they, anyway, the daft gits… they must be close— making you do their dirty work— how typical."

Hermione remained silent, unable to tear her mind away from the sensation of Malfoy's arm around her waist, from the feeling of his side pressed firmly against her. He'd grown so much over the past year that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

She attempted to muster her fiercest glare, but he remained unfazed, amused at best.

"I'm touched, Granger, so _thoughtful_ … but my birthday has already passed… and if I'm not mistaken, it's _your_ birthday soon. A few weeks away, isn't it?" His tone dripped with sarcasm.

Hermione's mind didn't have the space to wonder how he knew that to be true. She bit her bottom lip and looked toward the window, picturing Harry and Ron outside the shop under the Cloak, listening closely. She wondered how far they'd let this go before intervening. Silently, she begged them to remain outside, hidden. It wouldn't do for Harry to be seen.

_And I can handle Malfoy._

"See anything you like?" Malfoy asked rhetorically as he gestured to the glass display case. "A skull won't do for a birthday, no… and certainly not a dagger… although, on second thought, a gift so savage rather suits your true character, no?"

"Malfoy—" she growled, but she saw he remained unaffected. His smirk only grew, and his light gray eyes brightened. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

_He's enjoying this._ Hermione knew anything she said in protest would only serve to prolong the ordeal.

"I know you're not typically one for the _finer_ things in life— Potter and Weasley are evidence enough of that…" he said as he edged along the length of the case, nudging her along with him, "…but why not some jewelry? Hm? You are _coming of age_ after all…"

The phrase, coming from his lips, made her feel as though she may faint… or murder him on the spot. The latter of the two had undeniable appeal, but she knew neither option would be particularly helpful at the moment.

Malfoy continued inspecting the items inside the case; gold, diamond, silver, stone— all glittering, all reflected in the shine of his eyes. Hermione swallowed.

"That necklace," Draco pointed decisively to a glinting delicate necklace inside the case. "It's platinum?"

"The finest— Goblin-made, but… sir, the cost—" his eyes flashed to Hermione briefly, clearly considering she was unfit to wear something so valuable. "Surely, this wizard-made gold bracelet—"

"You think I _care_ what it costs?"

Hermione couldn't help but notice the platinum band gleaming on the ring finger of his right hand.

"That one," Draco said decisively, pointing again to the necklace.

Borgin hastily obliged this time, and handed the necklace to Malfoy who inspected it closely in the palm of his hand. Hermione took his moment of distraction to test her weight against his arm, motioning for the door, but his hold on her did not yield.

"What? You don't like it, Granger? I'm hurt."

Hermione was startled by the feel of his hands suddenly on her waist, his hold firm, as he positioned himself behind her. Her hands came to rest on the edge of the glass case to steady herself.

"Don't touch me," she said, intending to sound threatening, but noted her voice sounded rather weak.

"Move your hair," he commanded as if he had not heard her protest, his voice quiet, but icy.

Reluctantly, wanting nothing more than to bolt out of the shop, she brushed her hair to one shoulder. As Malfoy placed the necklace around her neck, two small joined rings, connected on either side by a thin platinum chain, glimmered before her eyes as it came to rest on her rapidly rising and falling chest, just below her collarbone. She felt Malfoy's warm breath and light touch on the exposed skin of her neck as he clasped the necklace behind her.

An unwelcome shiver ran down her spine. She felt again as though she might pass out… or murder him.

Her hands now free, she reached for her wand a second time, hoping to catch Malfoy off-guard… but she discovered her wand was gone.

"Looking for this?"

She hastily turned and found him lacing her wand through his fingertips.

"Will that be all, Mister Malfoy?"

Malfoy scowled, as if he had just remembered they were not alone in the shop.

"Yes. Put it on my account."

He gripped Hermione's upper arm in his hand and practically dragged her toward the door. She tried to pull away to no avail. She felt the tip of a wand pressed against her back.

"Oh, and Borgin— remember, not a word to my mother—"

The moment they were outside the shop, back into the summer air, Malfoy poised her own wand at her chest, and, with his other hand, pointed his wand in the direction of Harry and Ron, who had revealed themselves the moment the door to Borgin's had slammed shut.

"Let her go, Malfoy," Harry demanded. Hermione could hear him breathing heavily. Ron's face was red and furious.

"Gladly."

To her surprise, Malfoy released her arm as if it had burned him, or as if she were dirty. She imagined he probably thought so. Despite her anger, she found she couldn't speak; she was reeling.

No one lowered their wands. Hermione saw something she could not quite place flash across Malfoy's expression; there was anger… definitely annoyance and pride… but there was more— _Envy? Maybe. Fear?_ She wondered.

_It can't be,_ Hermione tried to rationalize, knowing he'd had the upper hand throughout the entire exchange. But still… there was _something_. Hermione couldn't help but note Malfoy refrained from engaging in a confrontation, and he certainly wasn't running his mouth, as was his custom.

It was suddenly clear to Hermione that something beyond Malfoy's appearance had also changed this summer.

"You don't know what— _who—_ you're meddling with," Malfoy said coldly, as if to Hermione only.

"Oh, really? Then enlighten me. _Who_ am I meddling with, Malfoy?" Her voice was quiet, but firm.

He smirked.

"Is that a threat, Malfoy?" Ron seethed.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "No, Weasel, it's a proclamation of undying love— your stupidity truly knows no bounds, does it?"

"Give Hermione her wand," Harry interrupted. To Hermione, Harry and Ron's voices suddenly seemed unfamiliar and so very far away.

There was silence for a moment, and Malfoy's gaze met hers. Hermione watched in shock as he lowered her wand.

Her eyes flickered to his forearm, where the cuff of his sleeve had risen to reveal the smooth paleness of his wrist.

_If only his sleeve was just a little higher…_ His gaze followed hers and he quickly shifted, knowingly obscuring her view of his wrist.

"What would I want with a Mudblood's useless twig anyway?" Hermione watched her wand clatter to the ground as Draco shifted his focus back to Harry and Ron. She stood resolute.

Malfoy straightened, as if resolving himself to something. He lowered his own wand.

"I'm loathe to admit it, but Granger was right in Madam Malkin's— why should I waste my time?"

He glared at Harry and Ron before shifting his gaze back to Hermione again. "Next time, you won't find me so… forgiving."

With that, Malfoy turned on his heel and disappeared down the alleyway, leaving her with nothing more than the sensations of the cool platinum around her neck— as light as the touch of his fingertips had been— and the ghost of his arm around her.

/

A/N: A good portion of this chapter is directly from HBP. I hope you liked my Dramione spin on it :) Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	5. Die Trying

/

_"'I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.'"_

Draco read the sentence one last time before slamming the book shut.

The truth hurt, and Draco was not immune to this pain. His summer had been far from restful, eons away from enjoyable, but, with a sense of dark irony, he mused it _had_ been enlightening… in a forceful sort of way.

Book in hand, he fell into his soft four-poster bed, bracing himself for another restless night plagued by his own thoughts.

Draco _knew_ hate. He was as familiar with it as the sight of his own neat, yet slanted, signature. Hate had been a core value of his upbringing, his father's lessons in particular; and Draco was no fool, he'd learned hatred well, and quickly.

But it was only recently Draco had begun to _understand_ hate.

At first, he'd blamed Potter, the Order, Dumbledore, that hag Umbridge, and even Snape for his father's downfall and imprisonment… but then there'd been Voldemort's wrath— a wrath he had not simply reserved for Lucius. Draco winced at the memory of his own searing pain, the seeming endlessness of Voldemort's Crucio, and the scraping, biting agony of the Dark Mark branded into his arm.

His blood still boiled at the thought of Potter and his inane band of worshipers, but this feeling, along with the learned blood prejudice, the baseless superiority, and the prideful arrogance of his upbringing— these things were _nothing_ now, laughable, compared to the hatred he felt for Voldemort— his " _Dark Lord."_

As he stared up into the lofty, darkened canopy of his bed, Draco could barely contain a bark of sarcastic laughter at the thought of the ludicrous title he'd once revered.

Voldemort had forever damaged his father. In truth, Draco hadn't really regarded his father in any positive regard for some time now (in fact, looking back, Draco realized there had been very little to admire about his Lucius' character beyond his ability to garner status and influence, and to help make the Malfoy family even more wealthy), but Voldemort had severed any thread, however bare, of dignity the man might've had left.

Much more painful for Draco to bear was Voldemort's muring of his home, and worse, the reduction of his fierce, intelligent, and elegant mother to nothing more than a dutiful servant.

_At least there's something of her left,_ Draco considered.

His mother had not given up yet; she knew how to put on a good show, to cooperate to survive. She understood how to bide her time, and how to deceive to achieve her ends— all to protect her family, her lineage.

Draco understood now that Voldemort's power and the destruction of his family, at least in part, had been made possible through deception and manipulation; through the guise of his family's very own history of hate. It seemed to Draco to be how Voldemort got most pureblood families to follow him. He saw now that the Malfoy history of hate had made his family— made him— weak.

Voldemort had taken away his independence, and what was more painful, Draco realized just how stupid he'd been, how sheltered and naive— how much of it all had perhaps been _his own_ fault.

He now felt he _truly_ understood what it meant to hate; hate was what he felt _for Voldemort._

Draco lifted his sleeve, the pale blue moonlight highlighting the wretched mark on his arm against the paleness of his skin. He loathed it, how it still pained him, and all it represented— but he'd agreed to it. He'd done it to save himself of course, but more than that, to save his mother, his home— to save the Malfoy name, to protect his future. There really hadn't been another choice, at least not in his mind; enter the fold, or die.

_I'm probably going to die anyway,_ Draco thought, for perhaps the thousandth time.

But the Mark had given him time at least— time and chance. He was a Slytherin after all, and he was not one to deny an opportunity, however unpleasant, whatever the vague moral implications, when it presented itself.

The old hate Draco held in his heart and mind was a feeble, gray shadow of what it had once been, shattered fragments of a blackened mirror, leaving indecision, fear, confusion, _and pain_ in the newly empty and unfamiliar blank spaces.

In the past, hatred had made it easy for him to make choices, but he knew things were changing; _he_ was changing. And the changes in his life only seemed to be multiplying at an exponential rate.

And Draco was finding it increasingly more difficult to believe what he'd been told about pureblood superiority. Reluctant as he was to admit it, he could not deny that Granger, for instance, although Muggle-born, was undeniably more magically capable than some of their embarrassingly brainless pureblooded peers.

Draco scowled at the memory of Potter and Weasley's idiotic faces outside Borgin and Burkes.

_I'm not sure who's the more daft pair,_ he thought. _Potter and Weasley or Crabbe and Goyle._

Draco thought of his housemates and grimaced. In truth, they were nothing more than followers, pawns— and Draco knew he'd associated with them to stroke his own ego, and to _use_. He'd love nothing more than to disassociate himself from them, but he considered there was still value in their continued unquestioned obedience.

_At least Theo's not daft,_ Draco mused, as if his fellow Slytherin could hear his thoughts. Although, admittedly, Draco sometimes wondered if Theo _could_ read his mind.

But Theo's frequent presence at Malfoy Manor that summer _had_ prompted Draco to reconsider his friend's intelligence.

Draco was marked, probably destined for failure, and Theo knew it, even though Draco had not described the details of the task Voldemort had given him. He again wondered why Theo seemed particularly insistent on maintaining their friendship— on helping him— when the associated risk was so high.

'" _High stakes, high reward,"'_ Draco remembered Theo claim as he'd wagered dozens of galleons over a game of wizard's chess… on more than one occasion.

But Draco could think of no reward for Theo— for anyone— in being his friend.

As if on cue, there was a knock at his bedroom door. Draco leapt from his bed, drawing his wand; a habit he'd acquired only this summer.

"You can lower your wand, you git," Theo announced as he entered.

"Whoever knew you'd take Mad-Eye's— or I guess Crouch Junior's— advice to heart? _Constant vigilance—_ " Theo mocked as he collapsed into a high-backed chair in the corner of the room. "What a twat— although, I suppose he had his merits— he _did_ turn you into a ferret—"

"Nice to see you too, Theo, as always. Greystoke getting a little too lonely this evening?"

"Father's probably writing right about now," Theo smirked. "Remember it's _Nott Estate_."

"He's still on about that? Your father's mental if he thinks he's special enough to rename a castle that's older than Hogwarts."

"'Course he's mental. I suppose he wouldn't be quite so intent on renaming the estate if his grandfather hadn't squandered his fortune on dragon eggs… anyway, I'll admit it's true the wizard population at the house has been cut in half now that father has taken up residence at hotel Azkaban… but you know I always have my army of house-elves to keep me company."

Draco knew Theo was joking, but the comment was based in truth. Theo's upbringing had been a rather solitary one, left largely to the care of the castle's battalion of house-elves and a pureblood governess, now long retired, who'd Draco recalled had quite a penchant for making copious quantities of Ogden's Firewhiskey disappear.

"No, I know what it is… you just couldn't wait to see me until tomorrow on the train, could you?" Draco mocked.

"Actually, I can't wait to see your _mum_ —" A devilish grin spread across the Slytherin's face.

"Try me, Nott, go ahead."

Theo laughed, "You know I have the _utmost respect_ for Sissy— she put up with raising _you_ after all. You're awfully touchy— Granger's nasty temper really seems to have rubbed off on you during your little run-in."

"You're giving the mudblood too much credit, I've always had a shit temper," Draco shrugged.

"Valid. Suppose you're just feeling lucky she didn't transfigure you into a fly and trap you in a jar—"

"What?" Draco asked. If this was Theo's attempt at a joke, Draco felt it was a pretty odd one.

"Y'know— a fly. Trapped in a jar. Rumor has it that's what she did to Rita Skeeter after the Tournament."

"And you believe that? I've witnessed Granger get delirious with power for confiscating a first year's dungbombs— but _you_ think she illegally imprisoned someone _in a jar_?"

"So you think it was that prat, Potter— or, no, must've been _Weasley—_ who had the idea last year, _and_ who managed the tricky magic, to cover Edgecombe's face in pimples— that cleverly spelled 'SNEAK' to boot?" Theo's voice dripped with sarcasm.

Draco bit his lip, attempting to hide his grin at the memory of the sight of Marietta Edgecombe's jinxed face. He reluctantly admitted to himself it was an admirable act, and clearly Granger's work.

_I'll have to think of something similar for Crabbe and Goyle this year,_ he mused. He wasn't about to take any chances with the task that had been thrust upon him.

_Or at least I'll have to use her coins,_ he thought, considering it had no doubt been Granger's invention to modify fake galleons with a Protean charm so that Dumbledore's Army members could secretly communicate. Draco admitted the idea was ingenious, and surprisingly devious, and he fully planned to use the idea for himself, soon enough.

"Granger's a sadist, I'm telling you," Theo said.

"Where is she anyway? Shacking up at the Weasley slum?" Theo's hazel eyes traveled from the sight of Draco's Mark— still raw, red, and throbbing dully, even after all these weeks— to the platinum ring on his finger.

Draco's gaze too found the ring on his right hand, the smooth platinum band glinting cooly in the moonlight. The ring was Goblin-made, a family heirloom his mother had gifted him for his thirteenth birthday. He never took it off.

Looking at it now, he smirked at the memory of Granger in Borgin and Burkes, at the recollection of her palpable indignation, anger, and discomfort; it had been a rare occasion, catching the Gryffindor off-guard _and_ alone. At first, he'd felt a familiar spark of anger at her presence in the shop, knowing she, Potter, and Weasley were meddling where they shouldn't, as always, but in truth, he'd been more annoyed, amused even, at her feeble attempt to get information on him.

He removed the ring to roll it between his fingertips, and failed to suppress the ghost of the feeling of Granger's side pressed against him, the sensation of her narrow waist in his hands, and the subtly warm and floral scent of her as she'd moved her hair to the side.

Draco admitted Hermione had been as awkward as the rest of them during their earlier years at school, and he frowned at the remembered image of his own past appearance. He also admitted to himself that he hadn't truthfully thought her _physically_ ugly in quite some time, despite what he may have verbalized.

_And now she's… well—_ He shook his head, annoyed with himself.

_So what? Granger's attractive._ _Big accomplishment,_ Draco scoffed internally.

He reasoned a lot of girls at school were attractive in one way or another, although none in particular came to his mind at the moment. He scowled at his own perceived weakness.

Unnoticed by Draco, Theo's eyebrows raised ever higher at his friend's growing silence, curious as to why Draco was suddenly so enamored by his own train of thought about _Hermione_ _Granger._ But Theo also recognized Draco was more prone to bouts of brooding silence these days, and thought it best not to comment on it— at least not right now.

Draco diverted his attention back to the task at hand and peered at the script now visible inside his ring: it read 'The Burrow.'

When he'd touched the necklace to his ring at Borgin's, it had linked the two, as he had known it would—it was a special thing about Goblin-made platinum. Wherever the necklace went, Draco would know. His father and mother had a few pieces themselves.

"Of course she's there, Potter too, no doubt— where _else_ would they be?"

"Useful to be able to be to keep an eye on "The Chosen One" this year," Theo shrugged. "It's just an added perk you'll get to know when Granger's headed for the Prefects' bathroom, eh?"

Draco balked, masking the warmth now spreading involuntarily through his core at the imagery.

"Oh, please— just because she's a mudblood… that's where we differ, you and I— _I'm_ not one to deny physical beauty when I see it… too much work, totally impractical. In fact, I think I've got quite the eye for it— just call me an artist," Theo smirked.

"Bullshit artist," Draco smirked at his own retort.

Despite Theo's use of the word, Draco knew his friend didn't really believe in the idea that blood purity somehow made you more magically competent— he knew because they'd argued about it on more than one occasion over the years. But Theo also wasn't one to deny the influence and privilege— and undeniable safety— that came with pureblood status, nor with pretending like you _did_ in fact believe in the superiority of magical blood purity, particularly when your father was a Death Eater.

"And here I thought our friendship was really making progress."

Admittedly, their friendship had made Draco realize that he'd never actually experienced friendship beyond that of Theo Nott's. Although he would never say so, he was glad to have an equal.

_'"It doesn't hurt to have an ally."'_

His mother's word rang through his mind, words she had told him on more than one occasion, particularly as of late.

Draco admitted Theo was as close to an ally as anyone, but his friend did not bear the Mark— he had not been called to serve for his father's failures. And although Theo had his pureblood name, vaults full of gold, an expansive estate full of house elves and rare valuables— and now, Malfoy and Black heirlooms as well— Draco wasn't about to drag his friend into his own mess, which would effectively take away what Draco saw as Theo's only possession of _true_ value— his freedom.

_Are any of us really free though?_ Draco wondered, knowing the war would probably come for Theo eventually.

Draco chucked the leather-bound book he'd been reading across the room, aiming for Theo's head, but he caught it without flinching.

As Theo began to flip through said book, Draco again diverted his attention to his ring.

He knew it would soon read 'King's Cross,' then 'Hogwarts' Express.' But he didn't need his ring to know where Granger would be; in fact, she'd likely be right in front of him on the train, for the Prefect's meeting.

He pictured her sitting across from him in the train compartment, bloody Weasley flanking her as always— how he'd been made a prefect, Draco would never understand— her arms would likely be across her chest, and she'd be glaring at him with her brown eyes, irate the necklace was still around her neck. His smirk returned as he pictured the necklace gleaming against her smooth skin…

He still wasn't sure what had possessed him to act in such a way in Borgin's, especially when his instinct had been to hex all three of them— Potter, Granger, and Weasley— take their wands, and be on his way. But he supposed the seed of change growing inside him had prompted him to reconsider— to choose more wisely.

It was satisfying to know that he now he had a means to keep an eye on Potter's whereabouts, something he hoped to use to his advantage, but he'd left Knockturn Alley feeling a confusing mess of fear, anger, and most absurdly— envy of Potter and Weasley. But he'd also felt deeply curious of Granger's rather restrained reaction, and empowered by his control of the situation.

Draco sighed and slid the ring back on his finger.

"So you're enjoying this blood-traitor propaganda I gave you, I see?" Theo said, referencing the book in his hand. It was the burgundy-covered book Theo had lent him, a book that summarized recent magical blood research, and questioned the idea of the power of blood purity. He'd noticed his disowned aunt's name among the list of contributing researchers.

"Best to try to understand all perspectives of an issue, wouldn't you say? There's power in it," replied Draco, although he wasn't really sure he believed in such things.

"Forget Granger— sounds like _I'm_ rubbing off on you. I'm touched," Theo held a hand to his heart in jest.

Draco rolled his eyes, despite the shred of truth in Theo's statement.

Theo thirsted for knowledge of all kinds, but was also deeply skeptical. He wasn't without his biases, but Draco recognized Theo had always been better at setting aside his family's history of prejudice and hate to form opinions of his own. It was something Draco respected; relying on your own intelligence and ingenuity, forging your own path.

But Theo had certainly suffered for it over the years, most often at the hand of his own father. Draco winced at the childhood memories Theo's father's "parenting" style.

"How does a book like this even survive in your father's house?"

"I'm not sure he knows how to read, actually—" Theo replied.

"Okay, let me rephrase. How does a book like this exist in the castle's library at all? The Burkes were pureblood, too."

"Good question, Draco," Theo chimed as though he were teaching a lesson. "It's true my mums family, the ancestral proprietors of Greystoke, were rather ardent believers in pureblood superiority. But, I'd argue that was not their greatest value."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"It disturbs me you have yet to memorize my mum's family's creed— Scientia sit potentia" explained Theo, as if this were obvious.

"Knowledge…" Draco began, partially recognizing the phrase.

"'Knowledge is power,'" Theo shrugged.

"Seems your family's gone a bit off-course over the years— the knowledge part in particular," Draco smirked.

"Well, the Nott family creed is 'Perdere impura…' destroy the impure. The 'impure' being Muggles, mudbloods, and blood traitors of course," Theo sighed in exasperation. "So I won't deny your theory has some merit. Anyway, you'll be a master manipulator in no time, my young apprentice. You've already begun with that necklace, and your recent literary review. Now, let's talk about the task our omnipotent overlord's given you—"

"—do you really want to lose another duel over this, Nott? I'm tired. Go home."

"You know I could help you. Father says I'm smart—"

"Your father says you're a smart _ass_."

"Still smart, though. Malfoy— since it seems we've resorted to our surnames— let me help you."

"No."

"You know I'm not going to give up on this."

"I know."

"You can't win in this battle of stubbornness against me, member of the order Fraternitas Draconum, third class."

Draco sighed, "That's one of the innumerable reasons why I _can't_ tell you. Anyone more stubborn than me has got serious issues."

"Granger might be a sadist, but you're definitely entering masochist territory."

Draco ignored this comment. "I'm not going to tell you. You'll get us both killed… although, I'm probably headed that way regardless."

"Not on Nott's watch. Hm— that has a nice ring to it, no?"

"Good-bye, Nott. I'll see you in—" Draco tiredly eyed the magical clock on his wall, "—six hours."

Theo rose, returned the book to Malfoy's side, then headed for the door.

"Six hours? Can you really survive that long without me?"

"Stupefy!" Draco exclaimed, his wand aimed at Theo. With Theo's help, his mother had at last managed to reinstate all of the Manor's protective wards, including the ward that allowed Draco to perform underage magic without Ministry detection.

But Theo knew his opponent well, and had already stepped over the threshold, using the bedroom door as a shield against Draco's spell.

"We meet at dawn!" Draco heard Theo shout as he retreated down the hall.

Draco rolled his eyes, leaning into the pillows propped against his headboard.

He recognized the seed of change inside him continued to grow unfettered, its vine-like tendrils entwining, surrounding, collapsing the once hardened, predictable and undeniably comfortable darkness of the hate he'd known so well.

He was beginning to see that with exponential change came less clarity, a decreased grasp on what _was_ truth, and what wasn't; to see that choice, at best, was gray.

Draco shifted his position in bed, and noticed Theo had left the book he'd been reading open, a sentence underlined.

_"'The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.'"_

In the margins, Draco found Theo had written: _'You still have shit to lose, you prat.'_

Draco smirked, shaking his head, and tossed the book into his school trunk, which was propped open at the foot of his bed.

He knew hate, and pain… and he'd certainly become well-acquainted with fear, but through it all, something else had begun to take hold.

Draco decided that he was done deluding himself— only to hold onto some inflated sense of his past. His father had relied on blood purity, on the glory promised to him by others, but Draco was resolved to avoid this mistake; he was determined to rely only on his own knowledge and skill. He was done belittling his own intelligence, and he was done with the fear of displeasing his father, who was no more than a shell of a man now. Draco Malfoy was no fool, and he was not about to let himself be made one.

He was determined to make the _right_ choices, whatever they may be… to save his mother and his home, and maybe he'd even manage to save his own future…

_Or at least I'll die trying._

/

A/N: "I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain." James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time

Thank you for reading!


	6. Platinum

**/**

"I told you, Ron, it won't come off," Hermione explained in exasperation, for what she was sure was the hundredth time. She, Ron, and Harry were sat in the Burrow's garden, enjoying the final days of warmth of their summer holiday.

Ron eyed the necklace at Hermione's throat through angered, narrowed eyes.

"Are you sure? Here, let me try again," he said as he reached toward Hermione's neck.

She retracted, placing her fingertips over the necklace's smooth, joined rings. She watched as Ron's look of anger transformed into suspicion, then incredulousness.

"Don't tell me you _like_ the thing, Hermione— women and jewelry, I'll never understand."

She rolled her eyes, and Harry looked between them uneasily.

"Really, Ron? I can't wait to be rid of it."

Hermione said truthfully, or, at least, _mostly_ truthfully.

She had lost count of just how many times she'd attempted removal of the necklace Malfoy had fastened around her neck in Borgin and Burkes, but each time, the clasp seemed to disappear from her fingertips.

Worse than that, she had been burned by the necklace three times now: once, when Harry had attempted removal, the second with Ron. The third instance occurred with Ginny, when Hermione postulated that perhaps the necklace had been charmed against the removal by another _man_ ; luckily, Ginny had been unable to see Hermione's grimace of pain as the necklace again burned her.

Hermione's attempts at healing the burn had also likewise been to no avail, and she was left with an angry, thankfully fairly small, red mark beneath her collarbone. She had no intention of telling anyone about it, and she was thankful she'd been able to hide the mark with the right clothing choices.

The necklace seemed otherwise harmless— or at least she hoped it was otherwise harmless— as it had given her no other pain nor cause for concern beyond the constant physical reminder of her incident with Malfoy.

She was enraged at her inability to remove the jewelry, disgusted by its presence- a reminder of Malfoy's general horribleness- but what bothered her more was the fact that she actually found the appearance of the necklace, with its understated, joined rings, quite lovely. Examining her reflection just that morning, she'd been surprised to note how the light platinum rather contradictorily complimented her warm summery glow. Ginny and Fleur, of course not knowing just _how_ it had come into Hermione's possession, had likewise complimented the necklace.

"I think it's time we talk to your dad," Harry said grimly. Hermione nodded in solemn agreement.

"But then— he'll know we went off on our own from Fred and George's—" Ron said worriedly.

"Are you sure _you're_ not the one getting attached to this thing?" asked Hermione sarcastically.

She saw Harry smirk.

"Well—" Ron sputtered.

"We're leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow, so we'll only have to endure his disappointment for one day," Hermione reasoned, not in any particular hurry to relive her failure, nor to admit to Mr. Weasley they'd compromised their own safety when they'd slipped away from Fred and George's shop.

"I suppose we don't need to mention Malfoy, exactly—" she rationalized. "I could say I bought it myself—"

"Er— about that," interrupted Harry, running his hand messily through his hair. "I was thinking it might be a _good_ idea to talk to your dad about Malfoy… I think— I think he might be a Death Eater."

"A Death Eater?" Ron whispered in disbelief.

Hermione said nothing.

_It's possible,_ one part of her mind considered. _It's true,_ another part urged.

"Listen— maybe he took his dad's place. You saw the way he jumped about a mile when Madam Malkin touched his arm."

"You don't really think— he's only sixteen—" Ron muttered skeptically.

Harry and Hermione shared a knowing look, and Hermione imagined Malfoy standing before Voldemort, the gruesome Mark seared into his arm as he attempted to keep his face stoic through the pain— a pain Hermione imagined was probably about a thousand times worse than the burn from her necklace. She considered what pressures he might be under— what threat his mother may be facing, with his father now in Azkaban after failing to retrieve the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries.

There was no doubt she disliked Malfoy, but the imagery made her grimace. She found herself unable to think even _he_ deserved that kind pain.

"You think so too?" Ron asked as he looked to her in surprise.

"I admit the evidence isn't very strong… but there was something about him that seemed… I don't know— off."

"Off?" Ron repeated.

"You're right, Hermione," Harry nodded in agreement. "He just walked away from us in Knockturn Alley— just dropped your wand…"

"Almost like he has bigger worries on his mind now," Hermione said, her fingertips again finding her necklace, absentmindedly this time.

The motion did not go unnoticed by Ron, however, and he scowled.

"Well, let's get this over with."

/

"I'm glad you three came to me," Mr. Weasley said as he examined Hermione's necklace more closely. The four of them were huddled in Mr. Weasley's tool shed under the cover of night, surrounded by his odd assortment of Muggle parts and appliances, some modified with magical qualities, others rusted beyond recognition.

"But I'm disappointed you disappeared like that— especially after the work we went through to visit Fred and George's safely."

"I'm sorry, dad," Ron mumbled sincerely.

"Yeah, we're sorry, Mr. Weasley," Harry echoed.

"It was all my idea— Malfoy really looked like he was up to something," Hermione explained.

They'd already described how the necklace had come into Hermione's possession (she had of course omitted the more _uncomfortable_ details of the confrontation), and now, they admitted their suspicion that Malfoy was one of Voldemort's newest Death Eaters.

"Listen you three… I know Draco Malfoy's history of behavior doesn't exactly warrant confidence—"

Ron made an incredulous sort of snort, but Mr. Weasley's stern look silenced him quickly. With utmost strength, Hermione refrained from smirking.

"—but do you think maybe your bias is leading you to believe there's more to his visits at Malkin's and Borgin's than really exists?"

Hermione knew Mr. Weasley would come to this conclusion, it was one she had considered herself, but the way Malfoy had followed her gaze to his wrist— the way he'd let her wand fall…

"At any rate, the charm on the necklace is actually pretty common— prevents breakage, you see… and removal by anyone other than the person who clasped it first. Right useful if you're one to lose things… some of Molly's jewelry is charmed just the same, none so fine as this, but—"

Seeing their surprised expressions, Mr. Weasley elaborated.

"—jewelry she fastens _herself_ , of course. But I'm worried about this one, having come from Borgin's… you mentioned it's burning you, Hermione?"

"Yes. When anyone else tries to take it off me. When I try myself, the clasp just disappears."

"That's unusual. Did it leave a mark when it burned you?"

Hermione debated if she should come clean about her new wound, but decided against it, considering it made little difference.

"No," she replied.

_I told them it burned me, that should be all the information Mr. Weasley will need,_ she reasoned.

In the mirror that morning, she'd examined the raw, red mark, the one she'd been careful to keep hidden, and, noting with despair how it seemed to be taking the shape of the letter 'M,' she was now reminded of the scar on the back of Harry's hand, the one Umbridge had given him.

She shifted her brown eyes to Harry's hand, and saw the outline of his scar glow white.

"Hmm," Mr. Weasley breathed as he used a Muggle, electronically lit magnifying glass to again inspect the necklace.

"I'm no expert, but let me try to deactivate the charm," Mr. Weasley said as he rolled back his sleeves and proceeded to cast a number of spells, most of which Hermione recognized she'd already attempted herself.

Each of Mr. Weasley's removal spells were equally as unsuccessful as her own had been; the necklace remained unmoving, the clasp continually disappearing from Hermione's fingertips with each attempt at removal.

Mr. Weasley wiped his brow, and Ron yawned loudly. Hermione could see Harry was barely succeeding at keeping his eyes open.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. At least it doesn't seem as though there's any other curse on it— I did scan it. Did you see or hear anything at all about the necklace when you were in the shop?"

Hermione replayed the memory in her mind. She wished she'd been more observant at the time, but the feel of Malfoy's arm around her, his side pressed threateningly against her, and his breath on the back of her neck clouded all other details. But Borgin _had_ mentioned something…

"I remember now— Borgin said it's Goblin-made platinum."

Mr. Weasley's forehead wrinkled in surprise.

"Goblin-made?" Ron asked. "Doesn't that mean it's insanely valuable?Why would Malfoy spend that on—"

"Careful, Ron," Mr. Weasley warned his youngest son politely. Hermione smiled at him in thanks. She remembered Malfoy's words, _'"I know you're not typically one for the finer things in life- Potter and Weasley are evidence enough of that—"'_

She frowned, knowing it was true, at least in part. Hermione wasn't one to greatly value material possessions, but she also wasn't one to deny the beauty of something skillfully and elegantly crafted, simply because of its price or circumstance; that would be foolish. Harry and Ron were thoughtful in their own ways, and usually got her something on her birthday and Christmas, but she knew her best friends were certainly not the type to see the value and beauty in something like the necklace, whether or not it had been purchased by Malfoy.

"Obviously to make a point," Harry explained dryly. "It was probably a drop in the bucket to him anyway."

"I wouldn't go that far, Harry, Goblin-made precious metals are highly valued… but certainly, yes, the Malfoys are quite wealthy."

"I wish you three had come to me sooner. Might've gotten Bill to take a look— he knows a thing or two about Goblin-made items, working for Gringott's. You said you're sure you haven't experienced any other side effects? Pain? Lapses in memory? Nightmares?"

"No, nothing," Hermione could say for sure she hadn't been experiencing nightmares; in fact, she couldn't recall the last time she'd slept long enough to have one. Her mark _did_ pain her, but she still didn't feel it was worth mentioning.

"D'you really think it could be cursed with something else, Mr. Weasley?" Harry asked, stifling a yawn.

The wizard ran a hand over his face tiredly, "My diagnostics point to 'no', but it's not out of the realm of possibility."

"Bloody Malfoy," Ron mumbled.

"Bloody Malfoy indeed," Mr. Weasley said through a yawn of his own, clearly too exhausted for the pretense of language standards.

"Could Bill visit me at school? Or— I could come to him—" Hermione offered.

Mr. Weasley was silent in consideration, his brow furrowed.

"I know it's not exactly a desirable option, Hermione, but… do you think you might be able to _ask_ Draco to remove the necklace?"

Ron laughed out loud. Harry scowled.

_It's the most logical option, really,_ Hermione thought. _And definitely the most unpleasant._ She again remembered Malfoy's firm grip upon her waist and shivered.

"Well," Mr. Weasley sighed, "I suppose it will have to be arranged with Bill, and Dumbledore should probably be alerted."

"Dumbledore?" Harry questioned, sitting upright.

Hermione frowned. Mr. Weasley's disappointment was one thing, but Dumbledore's was entirely another. By the change in Harry's expression, Hermione could see he was thinking quite the same thing.

"Yes, he will need to be alerted, especially if Bill is to visit. It brings me no pleasure… Ron— don't give me that look. It's beyond late, and your mother won't let me back in the house if we're even a fraction of a minute late for the train tomorrow. The three of you better be off to bed."

"And what about the thing Malfoy wanted fixing? If he threatened Borgin to get it done, it's probably something Dark or dangerous, isn't it?"

"I doubt it, to be honest, Harry," said Mr. Weasley slowly. "You see, after Lucius Malfoy was arrested, we raided his house. We took away everything that might have been dangerous."

"I think you missed something," said Harry stubbornly. Hermione imagined a Ministry raid inside a house she pictured as large and mysterious as Malfoy Manor— it seemed highly likely that they _could_ miss something.

"Well, maybe," said Mr. Weasley, but it seemed to Hermione that Mr. Weasley was humoring them.

Suddenly, a Muggle alarm clock sounded, and they all jumped. Harry and Hermione drew their wands in alarm.

"Two o'clock? Is that really the time? Moll will lose it if we're late tomorrow."

Slowly, Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood with Ron in the lead, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. Hermione was the last out the door; as she stepped over the threshold, she turned to face Mr. Weasley again. He was sitting atop a narrow, wooden stool, his hands on his knees, back hunched, the shadows under his eyes prominent in the harsh overhead light.

"I'm so sorry Mr. Weasley, I really am—"

She was relieved to see he managed a small smile. "We've been through worse, haven't we, Hermione?"

She smiled in response. It was true, they had been through much, much worse... and, in her exhaustion, she sensed there was much worse to come. Her smile faded.

"But I appreciate you saying so," Mr. Weasley continued, his expression suddenly firm. "And please, if anything changes, or, well— you know— just promise me that you'll let me know right away?"

"Of course. I— I promise."

An hour later, Hermione's consciousness seeped into sleep as pure exhaustion overtook her. Her hand rested atop the necklace's entwined rings, and the thin platinum chain around her neck glinted light gray in a sliver of pale moonlight.

/

A/N: Anyone else love Mr. Weasley? I wish we had a bit more of him in the books. Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	7. Express Encounter

/

Hermione tried to ignore the knowing— and frustratingly condescending— gleam in Malfoy's gray eyes, and the satisfied, lopsided smirk gracing his lips, but she was failing miserably, despite their distance, as they occupied opposite corners of the Prefects' compartment.

Hermione sat resolute, her back stiff, arms crossed tightly against her chest. Draco, on the other hand, looked as though he were on vacation, enjoying a sunny veranda somewhere, reclined in relaxation, his legs spread long.

_Pompous git,_ Hermione seethed inwardly, barely registering the voices of the Prefects and Head Boy and Girl as they reviewed the extensive list of banned items, which was really just Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' complete inventory list.

It seemed Malfoy also wasn't listening, more interested in inspecting his platinum ring, which he now, rather purposefully, rolled between his fingertips.

_Is he taunting me?_

Hermione clenched her fists in anger, and felt her nails digging into her palms. She stared at him, wishing nonverbal spells had been part of their fifth-year curriculum. She had quite a few choice spells in mind, just now.

Neither Hermione nor Draco noticed Ron and Pansy Parkinson's scrutiny, respectively. Ron observed Hermione with tentative caution; Pansy's gaze, in sheer adoration, never moved from Draco— she rather looked like she wished _she_ were the ring Draco seemed so intent on showing off.

"Hermione— are you ready to lead the first year Gryffindors this year?"

_I'm going to murder him— no, first I'm going to get him to remove the stupid necklace, and then—_

"Hermione?"

Draco looked up from his ring, and gray eyes met brown. Hermione looked away quickly. She felt Ron nudging her ribs.

"What?" She whispered furtively to Ron.

Owen Oxley, Head Boy, sighed impatiently.

"Er— yes— she's ready to lead the first years. Right Hermione? I'll help too," Ron answered, glancing worriedly between Owen, Hermione, and Malfoy.

"Perfect," Owen announced, referring back to his list, and checking an item off said parchment with an exaggerated flourish. "Don't forget to check with McGonagall for the password this week. Next—"

"Are we about done here? Some of us have things to do before we get to Hogsmeade," Draco announced.

Owen scowled, clearly perturbed that his Prefects were not taking the meeting as seriously as he'd hoped. Orla Quirke, Head Girl, noted his consternation and rolled her eyes.

"This is going to be a long year," she muttered to herself, dropping her forehead into her palm.

Unperturbed, Owen opened his mouth, most likely to reprimand Malfoy, but Ron beat him to it. The exchange went unnoticed by the other Prefects, who had taken Malfoy's interruption as an out, and who were now gathering their things to leave the compartment.

"Don't want to keep Crabbe and Goyle waiting too long, do you Malfoy? Afraid they might forget they're on a train and decide to take a little walk outside?"

"What a stroke of brilliance Weasley! Why don't you go ahead and lead the way for them?"

Hermione sat, immobile. As Malfoy rose from his seat, she thought she could feel the searing heat of the necklace's burn on the skin of her collarbone.

"Wait— Draco— where are you going?" Pansy trailed after him hopefully.

Without looking at her, Draco unceremoniously tossed an unrolled bit of parchment in Pansy's direction. She scrambled to catch it.

_Pathetic._ Hermione almost felt pity for the girl who featured in some of her most unpleasant interactions with other Hogwarts' students. _Almost._

How Parkinson had been made a prefect, Hermione felt she'd never understand; the girl's marks were hardly more than average, and she seemed to think herself _above_ the rules.

_She certainly loves implementing her_ own _rules,_ Hermione scoffed inwardly, _and taking any chance she can get to abuse her power._

"Slughorn's compartment. Invite only," Malfoy explained.

Hermione recognized the name immediately— the new Defense professor Harry had visited with Dumbledore. She wondered what the wizard wanted with Malfoy, but then she remembered what Harry had said, '"Dumbledore said he'll try to collect students with skill, useful connections, and influence."'

To her own irritation, she couldn't deny Malfoy certainly fit the bill.

"Don't forget—" Owen pleaded as the prefects filed out, paying him no mind whatsoever. "Filch will need us to help move students along as he scans for dark objects!"

Hermione's fingertips found her necklace, and Malfoy smirked in satisfaction at the action. At the sight of his response, she could contain herself no longer.

"If I have to endure more than _one second_ of Filch breathing down my neck because of this—" she pulled the necklace from her collar for Malfoy to see, "—I'll—"

She saw with grim satisfaction that Parkinson looked on in awe.

"Oh, Hermione— that's a beautiful necklace!" Hannah Abbott announced kindly from the other side of the compartment, "Ron, did you get that for her?"

Ron sputtered, his cheeks suddenly as red as his hair. Draco bent over with laughter.

Scowling, Hermione couldn't help but notice how Malfoy's genuine smile only seemed to somehow improve his already striking features, even though it was at her expense, and hastily exited the compartment, suddenly overwhelmed by an eagerness to be rid of them all. Ron scrambled after her.

"Draco— what was the mudblood talking about!?"

She heard Pansy shriek at Malfoy from three compartments down the corridor, and Hermione grinned to herself in satisfaction, thinking she'd rather deal with Malfoy's cursed necklace for a lifetime than share a train compartment with Pansy Parkinson for a moment longer.

_Lucky Malfoy._

/

Hermione and Ron spent the rest of their journey to Hogwarts sharing a compartment with Luna, but the train was rapidly emptying now, and Hermione could not find Harry. She'd urged Ron to take the lead with their prefect duties, explaining she would search for Harry and catch up; but her plan was rapidly falling to pieces. She couldn't find him anywhere.

She and Ron hadn't seen Harry since they all first boarded the train together, but when they found Luna after their Prefect's meeting, she explained that he and Neville had been invited to Slughorn's compartment.

"Shocker," Ron had shrugged, plopping comfortably next to Luna. The Ravenclaw smiled in his direction. "Although, what's Slughorn want with Neville?"

Hermione frowned at Ron's lack of perspective, "Ron, you know Neville's parents were well-respected, and pureblood, Aurors—"

"I wonder why Slughorn didn't invite me?" Luna questioned airily.

Hermione bit her lip in silence, but Ron's smile broadened as he pat Luna on the shoulder.

"Y'know, I was wondering the same thing, Luna. His loss."

Hermione's robes flourished behind her as she whipped from empty compartment to empty compartment; no Harry, only empty chocolate frog wrappings, forgotten textbooks, rogue ties— the vestiges of the students that had only just occupied the train.

As she emerged from yet another empty compartment, she heard a whirring noise, as if all the curtains in a compartment had been drawn at once. She gripped her wand, poised and ready.

She heard a door slide open not far from where she stood, and she chanced a glance into the corridor only to find Malfoy's blond head emerge not more than three compartments down, looking decidedly satisfied.

"Expelliarmus!" Hermione shouted without delay, easily catching Malfoy's wand in her palm.

She couldn't recall if she'd ever disarmed him before; his wand was dark, smooth, and heavier than her own. She felt a cool tingle in her fingertips, as if Draco's own magic was leaking out, into her.

Draco jumped, the force of Hermione's spell knocking him into the now-closed compartment door.

Seeing his typically flawless hair now askew, she smirked in satisfaction.

"Granger," he growled. "Shouldn't you be torturing some first years right about now? Don't want to be late for your date with Filch, do you?"

She wouldn't play his game this time. _No,_ I _have_ his _wand now._

"Where is he?" She said coldly.

"How should I know? You seem to be the one obsessed with the caretaker. Thought you always looked a bit jealous of Mrs. Norris."

Hermione marched forward, both wands poised at Malfoy's chest, pinning him against the compartment door.

The top of Hermione's head just barely came up just to his chin, and her now-familiar delicately floral yet warm scent, like cardamom, filled his nostrils, but he would've been a fool not to feel at least a little intimidated. He remembered what Theo had said about Rita Skeeter, trapped in a jar.

_Maybe that wouldn't be so bad,_ a voice in Draco's mind whispered, _then everyone might think I'm dead._

"Why is it always so much _talking_ with you, Malfoy?" Hermione asked rhetorically, her voice sharp. "One of these days it's going to put you in a position you'd rather not be in. Although…," her gaze travelled purposefully to his left forearm, where she suspected his Mark was hidden beneath his sleeve, "I'm not sure there's any position worse than the one you're _already_ in."

With satisfaction, she watched his eyes widen slightly. Although she still had no concrete proof, it was enough for her to assume that she was right— Malfoy was a Death Eater.

_She knows,_ Draco thought, surprised at her intuition.

"You know I meant Harry, not Filch. Where — is — he?"

_So what if Granger knows?_ Another voice in his mind answered. _No one would believe her anyway._

Even if they did believe her, Malfoy figured she was right; it wasn't any worse than the position he was already in, nor worse than the task he'd already been given.

"I don't know. Up at the castle? Kissing Dumbledore's feet?"

He felt the tip of her wand, and his own, press against his chest more firmly.

"What did you do to Harry—"

"You didn't ask me _that_ , Granger— I'll gladly tell you what I did to him," Draco interrupted, his anger rising. _Why does she care so much about him anyway?_

"Let me tell you _exactly_ what I did— I gave that speckled git exactly what he deserved."

"And let _me_ tell _you_ what's going to happen now. You're going to move aside to let me in that compartment, and then you're going to take this bloody necklace off of me."

She could feel the necklace pressed against her throat, suddenly as heavy and cold as Draco's wand felt in her hand.

"Language, Granger… and no, I don't think I will. I rather like Potter, and that necklace, right where they are."

Hermione's ears were ringing, the restraint she'd shown in Malkin's and Borgin's long gone. She briefly considered perhaps her patience had disappeared with the culmination of a summer's worth of sleepless nights. Without a second thought, she pressed the tip of Malfoy's own wand into his forearm.

He groaned at the blistering pain, again falling back into the solid surface of closed compartment door, bright pops of light blooming in his field of vision.

_What had Theo called her?_ Draco wondered, his agony making him a little delirious. _A sadist,_ his mind answered.

_Why is that prat always right?_

Draco braced himself, willing himself not to pass out. As the bright lights faded, Hermione's golden brown eyes swam into his view, wide but fierce, yet Draco saw fear there too— perhaps of her own actions. Or was it fear _for_ him?

_Doubtful,_ Draco thought.

In the places where his rage would've once surged, telling him to fight back, Draco felt only emptiness, distance, as if dementors were near.

_What's the point?_ He wondered, the searing pain in his arm now returning to a dull throb as Hermione eased the pressure. Draco saw that his battles were no longer with her… there were much bigger things at play. He reasoned that because she was a mudblood— and Potter's best friend— she was marked for dead. Draco considered _he_ at least had been given a chance, however small, to live— there was no hope for Potter and certainly not for people like Granger in Voldemort's war.

Any shed of gratification Hermione might have felt at her action disappeared as she witnessed Malfoy's _lack_ of action— and the pain, more than physical, in his expression.

_He deserves it,_ she tried to rationalize, but as she watched the usual brightness drain from Malfoy's eyes, his typically light gray eyes now darkened, another part of her felt as though she was being quite the hypocrite.

_He deserves it,_ her mind whispered again, more feebly this time.

"Malfoy—"

"Don't move, mudblood."

Draco and Hermione diverted their gaze in unison to find Theo Nott had entered the corridor, his hazel eyes narrowed, wand at the ready.

Draco nodded discretely to Theo in silent gratitude.

"Don't move, or I'll hex you," Theo commanded with quiet fury.

"No one will be hexing anyone," a voice Hermione recognized sounded from the opposite end of the corridor. "At least none of _you_ anyway. Drop your wands, both of you."

/

A/N: Some Draco/Hermione angst for you :) Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	8. Patronus

/

Hermione turned her head to see Tonks, as mousy-haired and miserable-looking as she had been when she had seen her at the Burrow, but her wand was steadily poised. She did not flinch.

Both Theo and Hermione slowly lowered their wands.

"Where's Harry?" Tonks asked, clearly wasting no time. Hermione glared at Draco.

Draco knew Theo was a skilled wizard, but not so skilled as to single-handedly triumph against Granger and a trained Auror. With a silent gesture of his head, he motioned toward the compartment behind him.

"Stand aside, and don't move, any of you," Tonks commanded tiredly as she entered the compartment. A moment passed, and Hermione heard Harry's voice. She mused it sounded like his nose might be broken. She glanced at Malfoy for a moment, his expression now unreadable.

Tonks and Harry, his face covered in blood, and as Hermione suspected, his nose looking as though it was indeed broken, emerged from the compartment just as the train windows became obscured with steam. The train lurched forward as they began to move out of the station.

"Come on you lot, we'll jump."

They all hurried after Tonks along the corridor. She pulled open the train door and leapt onto the platform, which seemed to be sliding underneath them as the train gathered momentum. They followed her; Malfoy, Hermione noted, did so with noticeable ease, while the rest of them were left staggering a little on landing, straightening up in time to see the gleaming scarlet steam engine pick up speed, round the corner, and disappear from view.

Hermione breathed deeply, allowing the cold night air to fill her lungs, the quiet of night in the now empty station slowing her heart. She was glad to have some distance from Malfoy, who now sidled up to Theo. She glanced at Harry, who she could tell was embarrassed and angry; she hoped not with her.

"Thanks," Harry said to Tonks.

"No problem," she replied, smiling weakly. I can fix your nose if you stand still."

Harry glanced to Hermione for reassurance, and when she nodded encouragingly, he stayed stock-still and closed his eyes.

"Episkey," said Tonks.

Hermione, Theo, and Draco watched as Harry's nose was mended.

"Thanks a lot!" Harry said.

"We'd better get going. I'm sure they've noticed three students missing," said Tonks, now unsmiling as an immense silvery four-legged creature erupted from her wand and streaked off into the darkness.

Hermione wished she had caught a better glimpse of it before it ran off; she didn't recall Tonks' Patronus taking that form before.

As they watched Tonks' Patronus disappear toward the castle, Draco idly wondered what his Patronus might look like, should he ever try to cast one.

"A Patronus," Theo declared quietly. It was not a question, but a statement, and Hermione detected a note of acknowledgement of skill in his voice. Hermione had heard Theo speak more in the past fifteen minutes than she had during her entire time at Hogwarts, but she knew, despite his introversion, he received top marks. In fact, Hermione mused that she, Malfoy, and Nott were among the top-ranking students in their year.

Academically, anyway, Hermione considered, groaning inwardly at the trouble she was already involved in before the school year had even officially begun.

"Yes," Tonks elaborated, "I'm sending word to the castle that I've got you or they'll worry. Come on, we'd better not dawdle."

They set off toward the lane that led to the school.

"Why did you come back on the train?" Hermione questioned.

"I noticed you hadn't left the train, Harry," replied Tonks without turning her head. "I thought you might be hiding for some reason. When I saw the blinds were drawn down on that compartment, I thought I'd check."

"But what're you doing here, anyway?" Harry asked.

"I'm stationed in Hogsmeade now, to give the school extra protection," said Tonks.

"Is it just you who's stationed up here, or—?" Harry whispered, Hermione assumed so Malfoy and Nott, who were now trailing a bit behind, could not hear.

"No, Proudfoot, Savage, and Dawlish are here too," Tonks whispered back.

"Dawlish, that Auror Dumbledore attacked last year?" Harry said, his voice again a whisper.

Tonks nodded silently.

They trudged up the dark, deserted lane, following the freshly made carriage tracks. Hermione looked sideways at Tonks. Last year she had been inquisitive (to the point of being a little annoying at times), she had laughed easily, and she had made jokes. Now she seemed older, much more serious, and purposeful. Hermione wondered if her change in demeanor was the effect of what had happened at the Ministry— Sirius' loss, the beginnings of war.

"Tonks," Hermione began, glancing hesitantly at Harry. "I'm so sorry… about Padfoot."

She saw Tonks smile ruefully as her long cloak whispered on the ground.

"Me too, Hermione, me too. We all miss him."

"It's not your fault, you know—" Harry managed to mumble, and Hermione knew he was probably resisting the urge to turn to glare at Malfoy in blame. She also knew her best friend probably blamed himself more than anyone, however.

Hermione reached out and grasped Harry's hand briefly; with pleasure, she felt him return the pressure.

Behind them, Draco watched the exchange through narrowed eyes; he could hear them talking about Potter's idiotic godfather. He knew Potter definitely blamed his father and his aunt for Sirius Black's death, but Draco also figured Potter no doubt blamed him, too, even though he'd had nothing to do with it… or almost nothing.

But Draco was learning to look beyond his instincts. At first, he'd been quick to blame the Order, Potter, and his band of worshipers for his father's failure. But Draco knew better now.

And while he continued to consider, at least in part, that Potter and Sirius themselves were to blame for Black's death, and that his father's weakness had contributed to his own personal downfall, Draco knew the real truth; Voldemort was to blame.

He wondered again how Granger could have possibly supported what was so obviously a trap last year, and how even now she could reach out and hold Potter's hand even after his failed attempt at espionage on the train.

She must love him, a voice in his mind answered. Draco was repulsed by the thought.

They deserve each other… or maybe they're just that desperate, Draco thought as he unknowingly stared at Hermione.

No more desperate than Pansy, a voice that sounded oddly like Theo's retorted. Draco frowned and glanced in his friend's direction, and was surprised to find Theo scrutinizing him.

Draco marched forward, ignoring his friend's suspicious look.

With great relief, the group finally saw the tall pillars on either side of the entrance gates, each topped with a winged boar.

Harry put out a hand to push open the gates, but he found them chained shut.

"Alohomora!" He said confidently, pointing his wand at the padlock, but nothing happened.

Draco watched with amusement as Hermione put her hand to her forehead in exasperation.

Obviously she knew as well as he did that a simple 'Alohomora' was useless at the front gates of Hogwarts. He mused that this knowledge seemed beyond Potter's grasp.

Maybe she just pities him, Draco considered.

"Moron," Theo mumbled through a cough.

Harry turned to glare at him.

"That won't work on these," intervened Tonks. "Dumbledore bewitched them himself."

Seeing Harry look around for another point of entry, Hermione shook her head. "Harry—" she began warningly.

"I could climb a wall," he suggested before she could say more.

"Your idiocy knows no bounds, does it Potter?" Draco said.

Hermione rolled her eyes, although she began to wonder if Harry had perhaps suffered a head injury in addition to his broken nose.

"No, you couldn't," said Tonks flatly, ignoring Malfoy's comment. "Anti-intruder jinxes on all of them. Security's been tightened a hundredfold this summer."

"Well then," said Draco, starting to feel annoyed at her lack of helpfulness, and Potter's ignorance, "I suppose we'll just have to sleep out here and wait for morning."

"Someone's coming down for you," said Tonks suddenly, "Look."

A lantern was bobbing at the distant foot of the castle. Hermione was so pleased to see it, to widen the distance between Draco and herself, she felt she could even endure Filch's wheezy criticisms of their tardiness and rants about how his timekeeping would improve with the regular application of thumbscrews. It was not until the glowing yellow light was ten feet away from them that she recognized, with a rush of pure regret, the uplit hooked nose and long, black, greasy hair of Severus Snape.

Hermione glanced in Malfoy and Nott's direction, expecting to see them smiling with glee in the darkness at the sight of their Head of House, but she was surprised to find that Nott's features were as unbothered as ever, and Malfoy looked as though he wished he were back on the train, headed for King's Cross.

Snape had always been his favorite professor, not simply because he was head of Slytherin house, nor because the man had clear disdain for Potter (although, Draco admitted, this fact had never hurt), but because Snape had always seemed to believe in his abilities, been his advocate, pushed him to be better as a student and as a wizard in general.

Draco would have once reveled in the sight of Snape walking down from the castle to cast judgement and inflict likely punishment on Potter, but all Draco could think of now as he felt Snape's dark gaze upon him was the night of his own branding, his initiation as a Death Eater.

Snape had been there as the Mark was burned into his arm, and the professor had visited Malfoy Manor in the days that followed, advising him, tending to the wound… at least the physical aspect of the wound anyway. Despite this sign of support and Snape's words of guidance, Draco could not help but feel that the professor, now more than ever, could see right through him; that he somehow knew of Draco's burgeoning hatred for Voldemort.

He no longer trusted Snape as he once had, particularly after the fiasco in the Department of Mysteries. He wasn't sure if his mother trusted the man either; it was clear Bellatrix had certainly never trusted him.

Like she trusts anyone besides my mother and Voldemort, Draco thought dryly.

But Draco admitted he too had never been one to trust easily… or anyone, really. His mother and Theo maybe.

Regardless of trust, he knew Snape was likely to have a few choice words for him for messing with Potter, and for losing his wand to Granger.

Maybe he won't notice that bit, Draco thought hopefully, his hand itching for his wand, which was still in Hermione's possession..

He always notices, his mind replied. Draco groaned internally.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Snape's indecipherable dark gaze travel slowly over the group, lingering on each of their faces with what she figured must be a mixture of displeasure, disappointment, and disbelief.

She considered their group did make for an odd combination. As his eyes passed her, she felt as if he'd looked right through her.

"Two prefects, a top student, and of course— Potter… I expect Miss Granger to get mixed up in Potter's messes, but Misters Nott and Malfoy must have a very good reason for being so late to the feast."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Snape interrupted.

"I don't want to hear one word… from any of you," Snape commanded. To Hermione's surprise, Malfoy obeyed.

"There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, the students are quite safe in my hands."

"I meant Hagrid to get the message," said Tonks, frowning.

"Hagrid was late for the start-of-term feast, just like this group, so I took it instead. And incidentally," said Snape, standing back to allow them to pass him, "I was interested to see your new Patronus."

He shut the gates in her face with a loud clang and tapped the chains with his wand again, so that they slithered, clinking, back into place.

"I think you were better off with the old one," said Snape, the malice in his voice unmistakable. "The new one looks weak."

Hermione mulled over Snape's comment.

So maybe Tonks' Patronus has changed. She'd read Patronuses could change with significant life events, and she wondered if perhaps Sirius' death had anything to do with the change.

She glanced at Harry, and by his expression, she could see he was thinking the same.

Hermione looked away as Snape swung the lantern about, and saw fleetingly, a look of shock and anger on Tonks' face.

"I'll be sure to tell your mother hello for you," Snape finished.

'Your mother?' Hermione wondered. What does he mean?

Then Tonks was covered in darkness once more. Hermione wished she could've stayed to talk to her for just a bit longer, maybe to try to cheer her.

As if reading her thoughts, Harry called, "Goodnight, Tonks," as they all began the walk up to the school with Snape.

"Thanks for… everything."

"See you— Harry, Hermione," she called back, her voice weak.

Snape did not speak for a minute or so, and Hermione could feel the waves of hatred emanating from Harry's direction. She knew he partly blamed Snape for Sirius' death, among many other unfortunate events. Hermione was hardly a fan of the professor, who did in fact seem to treat Harry with a special type of disdain, and who was unguarded with his favoritism for his own house— a quality which also bothered her about Dumbledore at times— but Harry hardly made things easier for himself where Snape was concerned. Plus, Hermione reasoned, Snape was a professor, and they had broken the rules— during dangerous, uncertain times, no less.

She wished she had just alerted an Auror or a professor at the station about Harry's disappearance, rather than take matters into her own hands.

Suddenly, Malfoy was beside her, startlingly close, matching her stride.

"My wand, Granger," he breathed into her ear so quietly she was sure no one else could not hear. She registered his now-familiar, masculine scent, which she identified as strangely simultaneously warm and cool, a combination of something darkly woody yet clear and refined. She was perturbed to find she was not disgusted by it.

"Trade you for this horrible necklace."

"Liar. You like it."

Distracted, Hermione didn't notice Theo had silently sidled up to her other side.

"I think that pain in your arm is making you delusional," she whispered.

"Maybe, but at least I don't let it distract me," Draco smirked as he abruptly pulled away.

Hermione glared at him with confusion. Her bewilderment hastily transformed into rage however, as she noticed the sudden absence of Malfoy's wand from her robes.

"Thanks, Theo," Draco said, grinning wickedly as Theo tossed him his wand directly over Hermione's head. He'd slipped it right out of her pocket.

The pair hurried forward, catching up with Snape, leaving a clearly irate Hermione behind.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor for lateness, I think," said Snape as they neared the castle. "And, let me see, another twenty for your Muggle attire, Mr. Potter. You know, I don't believe any House has ever been in negative figures this early in the term—we haven't even started pudding. You might have set a record."

Hermione's first instinct was to argue the punishment; it had been Malfoy who'd caused this whole mess in the first place, but she knew anything she said would only make things worse for herself, and particularly for Harry. She also wasn't keen to admit her failure, nor her weakness, in front of Snape, and certainly not in front of Malfoy and Nott.

She was angry, and she knew Harry was furious, but they said nothing.

She figured Harry too understood any argument would be futile.

"I suppose you wanted to make an entrance, did you Mr. Potter?" Snape continued. "And with no flying car available you decided that bursting into the Great Hall halfway through the feast ought to create a dramatic effect."

To Hermione's surprise, Harry managed to remain silent, though she fully expected she'd be required to talk him down later.

"I can't say I'm surprised, but I'm disappointed in you Miss Granger— a Prefect. Certainly Dumbledore will hear of this… I do hope it doesn't affect your chances at Head Girl next year…"

It took all of her focused effort to remain silent.

Malfoy and Nott continued walking ahead, and Hermione saw the confidence back in Malfoy's stride, his hair back in place as if he had just combed it, seemingly glowing in the moonlight. He was waving his wand animatedly, no doubt to taunt her, and she could see Nott failing to hide his quiet laughter. She felt as though her chest might explode with the anger coursing through her.

I think Harry's going to have to talk me down later.

Draco also remained silent, but found amusement in taunting Hermione, who he knew was fuming behind him, particularly after Snape's Head Girl comment. In truth, he couldn't wait for this all to be over, to lay undisturbed in his bed in his dorm, but he wasn't about to admit guilt to Snape, not when Harry had gotten what he deserved for meddling again.

I warned them, Draco thought, I told them I wouldn't be as forgiving.

His forearm still pained him, and as he returned his wand into the pocket of his robes, he noticed his hand was slick with blood— his own blood. It seemed Granger had reopened his wound when she'd pressed her wand into his Mark.

His jaw clenched involuntarily.

They reached the castle steps at last, and as the great oaken front doors swung open into the vast flagged entrance hall, a burst of talk and laughter and of tinkling plates and glasses greeted them through the doors standing open into the Great Hall.

"You will all join your House tables."

Harry turned on the spot and marched straight through the open doors. Hermione followed without a second glance at Malfoy and Nott.

Theo entered the hall at a more casual pace, smirking at Granger's harried attempt to keep up with Potter. Draco motioned to follow, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

"Draco, you will lead the first years to their dorm after the feast, and then you will meet me in my office," Snape commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Draco didn't meet Snape's eye. It had never been wise to argue with the professor, but now any attempt, however small, to refute Snape, who was rapidly becoming one of Voldemort's most trusted Death Eaters, was a fool's errand. Draco merely sighed, nodded, then entered the Hall.

The Great Hall with its four long House tables and its staff table set at the top of the room was decorated as usual with floating candles that made the plates below glitter and glow.

Draco barely registered his surroundings however, ignoring the curious stares of his housemates as he found a seat next to Theo, who was already helping himself to pumpkin juice. Having no appetite, Draco merely poured himself a glass of water and stared at his empty plate.

"Might I suggest you take a look up at the head table?" Theo said quietly between shooting a glare at Zabini that clearly said 'Mind your own fucking business' and taking a bite of pudding. "When you're done examining the your plate, of course…"

"Shut it, Nott—" Draco began as he reluctantly turned his attention to the head table, his words halting mid-sentence as he spotted a woman who looked eerily like his own mother sat between Professors Flitwick and Babbling. Even though he'd never met her, he knew right away it was his biological aunt, Andromeda Tonks.

"Should I start planning the family reunion? I could get Sprock to cater—"

"I said shut it, Nott. What in Merlin is she doing here?"

"Teach Healing, I suspect. Did you know she's a master Occlumens, and probably Legilimens, you know…"

But Theo's voice faded away as Draco's thoughts wandered. It seemed a very strange coincidence that his long-exiled aunt had suddenly appeared at Hogwarts to teach a class that hadn't been taught in the school for… Draco paused, trying to recall what he'd read in Hogwarts: A History about the class. He recalled Healing was last taught at Hogwarts during the time of Grindelwald's war.

Two tables over, the hall was a shimmering blur as Hermione tried to keep up with Harry, who walked so fast she found herself nearly breaking into a jog. She was passing the Hufflepuff table when people really started to stare; across the Hall, she could see Ravenclaws whispering over Nott and Malfoy's entrance.

Looking ahead, she saw Harry had spotted Ron, and they sped along the benches toward him.

"Where've you—blimey, what've you done to your face?" said Ron, goggling at Harry, along with everyone else in the vicinity.

"Why, what's wrong with it?" said Harry, grabbing a spoon and squinting at his distorted reflection.

"Oh— sorry, Harry, it was hard to see in the dark," Hermione said, now noticing the dried blood on his face. "You're covered in blood. Come here—"

She raised her wand and said "Tergeo!"

"Thanks, Hermione" said Harry, feeling his now clean face. "How's my nose looking?"

"Normal," she replied.

"Why shouldn't it?" Asked Ron in alarm, who was so shocked by their disappearance and sudden re-appearance he'd put down the turkey leg he'd been eating.

"We'll tell you later," said Harry curtly.

Hermione nodded in silence, conscious that Ginny, Neville, Dean, and Seamus were listening in; even Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had come floating along the bench to eavesdrop.

"But—" argued Ron, but he was quickly silenced at the sight of Harry and Hermione's matching darkly significant looks.

/

A/N: I hope you're enjoying this story. Thank you for reading! 


	9. Foolish

/

By the time Hermione and Harry finished describing what had happened on the train in the otherwise silent and empty Gryffindor Common Room, it was nearing two in the morning, and Harry was still reeling, pacing back and forth in front of the room's cavernous fireplace.

A lot had happened over the course of dessert: Snape had been named Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor (much to their dismay); it was confirmed Slughorn would be taking over Potions; Tonks' mother, Andromeda, was introduced as the professor for the new Healing class; Harry, Ron, and Hermione had realized they would have to find a way to tell Hagrid none of them were taking Care of Magical Creatures; and they'd seen Dumbledore's hand was still as black as ever.

But Hermione couldn't keep her thoughts from straying back to Malfoy. She kept replaying their exchange on the train, his marked silence, the way she'd pressed his wand into his arm, and above all, the pain she'd seen in his eyes.

"He's definitely a Death Eater, Ron. Tell us again, Hermione— what happened when you pressed his wand into his arm?"

Harry paused mid-pace to sit closely beside her on the sofa, their knees touching, giving her his full attention. Ron, his lanky limbs sprawled out in an oversized chair across from them, eyed the interaction with suspicion.

"Harry…" Hermione said reproachfully, her eyes unmoving from her lap. It was painful enough that her mind continued to replay the moment over and over.

"I _heard_ him from the compartment— I know he was in a lot of pain, but I know you weren't pushing _that_ hard. His Mark must still be healing or something."

Hermione winced at Harry's description.

"He's a Death Eater," Harry affirmed. "I know it."

"I think you're right," Hermione admitted quietly, the evidence too damning; she found herself conflicted, however, wishing it _weren't_ true.

"We need to tell Dumbledore—"

"I don't think that's such a great idea, Harry, without actual evidence," she interrupted.

"But—"

She shook her head, "Doesn't it seem like Dumbledore has more important things than Malfoy to worry about at the moment? Plus, knowing Dumbledore, he probably _already_ knows about Malfoy if he's a Death Eater, or at least, he must be keeping an eye on him."

Hermione saw that her explanation seemed to satisfy Harry, at least for the moment.

"Well, we'll have to keep a close eye on him this year— get some evidence. Maybe we can figure out his plan. Who knows what he's up to with whatever it is he wants Borgin to fix."

"You're sure he didn't talk about it with Crabbe and Goyle when you were in his compartment?" Ron asked through a yawn, referring to Harry's attempt at espionage beneath his Invisibility Cloak on the train, the attempt that had only succeeded in earning him a bloody nose and putting Gryffindor's house points in the negative before the school year had even really begun.

"No, nothing. He was too busy trying to get Parkinson off of him," Harry grimaced as if he'd just tasted something rotten.

Hermione smiled to herself, finding it a small consolation to visualize Malfoy on the other end of Parkinson's torture.

"That's unlike him," she mused. "He's usually the first to brag, and to love the attention." She wrinkled her nose at the thought.

"I've never seen Parkinson so peeved. Malfoy's really gone off her. Not sure who he should be more of afraid of this year— Parkinson or Voldemort."

"He's too good for Parkinson now?" Ron mused as he winced at Harry's use of Voldemort's name.

"Of course he is," she commented without hesitation, and Ron raised an eyebrow in response. She noticed Harry gaping at her.

"Oh, come on," she corrected, even though a small voice in her mind said, _'Well he_ is _too good for her…'_

"I only meant that _everyone_ is too good for Parkinson."

This seemed to satisfy them both, and Harry carried on. "Nott was as silent as ever."

"Speaking of Nott— it's a bit odd he came back on the train for Malfoy, isn't it? He usually tends to stay out of things," Hermione realized.

"Maybe he's a Death Eater now too, with his father in Azkaban," Harry offered. "I mean, if Malfoy's one— why not Nott?"

Hermione chuckled inwardly at the phrasing despite the seriousness of the topic.

"Maybe," she said. "But Nott's so secretive, and difficult to read— I don't think we'd ever know about him for sure."

"Unless one of those brain-dead gits Crabbe and Goyle let it slip," Ron said hopefully.

"I don't think Nott's the type to brag," Hermione explained. "Especially to people like Crabbe and Goyle." Hermione wondered if Nott's personality was rubbing off on Malfoy— she mused he certainly seemed more evasive and restrained compared to years past.

"You're right, Hermione. Plus, the way Malfoy's been keeping his mouth shut… I don't think anyone but Malfoy himself knows."

"And they didn't say anything at Slughorn's little meeting?" Ron asked, failing to hide the jealousy from his voice. Hermione refrained from sighing in exasperation; the shadow of Ron's jealousy still seemed to be the fourth member of their friend group.

"No, honestly they didn't say much at all."

"Why d'you think they were invited, anyway?" Ron asked.

"Slughorn knew their grandfathers or something. But I think Slughorn was testing them, like he was testing all of us— checking to see if we're worthy of his collection, just like Dumbledore mentioned he would," Harry yawned, clearly unimpressed by the prospect of Slughorn's club, all to Ron's consternation.

Hermione shot Harry a warning look as Ron rose from his seat.

"Coming, Harry?" Ron asked sullenly as he headed for the boy's dormitory.

"In a minute," Harry replied before turning to face Hermione again.

Ron paused at the bottom of the stairs, but seeing his friends were now otherwise engaged, he disappeared slowly up the stairs, his expression still sullen.

Hermione looked to Harry with curiosity.

As if reading her thoughts, he said, "Thanks, Hermione— y'know, for looking for me on the train."

"Harry, you don't have to—"

"I know, but I want to. I'd probably be just about back to London by now if you hadn't come looking for me," he smiled.

"And thanks for giving Malfoy hell," he said, his cheeks reddening as he leaned forward. She'd given him plenty of hugs over the years, but for the first time Hermione could remember, _Harry_ wrapped his arms around _her_.

Surprised, but grateful, she smiled at the warmth, returning his embrace. It was a new, but not unwelcome, sensation.

"And don't think I forgot about the necklace, Hermione. I bet we'll hear from Mr. Weasley or Bill soon," he assured.

"I hope so," she replied, pulling away.

/

/

After depositing the newly sorted first year Slytherin students into the common room in the dungeons without much more than a "follow me," Draco made his way toward Snape's office.

He couldn't quash the lingering guilt he felt for leaving the innocents to the devices of Pansy Parkinson.

_I'm not a monster, am I?_ Draco considered.

"And if I have to tell any of you the password more than once you can be sure that not being able to get into the common room will be the _least_ of your problems," Pansy had barked at the wide-eyed first years.

He cringed at the memory.

_Suppose I_ am _a monster._

Draco had done his best to ignore the feeling of Theo's shrewd gaze following him as he'd exited the common room, but he knew he'd have to answer his friend sooner or later.

_Most likely_ _sooner,_ Draco thought, now well-acquainted with Theo's unhampered persistence.

Draco had no doubt he'd be on the other side of Theo's interrogation in no time, tonight probably; he was sure his friend was burning for explanations for Potter's broken nose, his meeting with Snape, and, most of all, his altercation with Granger.

The promise of his four poster bed, draped in silver and green, seemed nothing short of a sick joke at this point.

_Not that I'd actually sleep anyway,_ Draco thought, unable to ignore the slow, throbbing waves of pain coursing through his left arm.

Draco's knuckles had barely made contact with the hard, aged wood of Snape's office door before he heard his professor beckon him forward.

He entered the room in silence, choosing not to occupy the open seat across from Snape's desk. Instead, he gripped the back of said chair, the ache of the firmness of his ring pressing into his finger barely detracting from the pain in his arm. He hadn't been the only student late to the feast, but of course Snape only wanted to talk to _him_ ; Draco couldn't help but picture Granger sleeping soundly in the privacy of her own bed with envy.

_Why couldn't he just take house points away from me and call it a day?_

Snape didn't look up as Draco entered, furtively scribbling across a wide scroll of parchment.

"Sit."

"I feel like standing."

"Do not play games with me, Draco. As I have attempted to impress upon you before, I am on your side."

Seeing he was fighting a losing battle, Draco sighed and sat heavily in the chair as Snape tightly rolled the parchment. He met his professor's gaze in defiance, and as usual, felt as though his dark eyes were reading his mind.

"In fact, I advise you to avoid playing games in general this term. You no longer have that luxury available to you."

"It wasn't a game."

"No? Then please do not hesitate to explain to me the greater purpose of Miss Granger's new—" Snape paused, a grimace emerging on his face, "—adornment. I did not assume the necklace was a heartfelt gift, but perhaps I was mistaken?" Snape said slowly, deliberately, tenting his fingertips atop his mahogany desk.

Draco remained silent, stunned as the image of the smooth skin of the back Hermione's neck rushed to the forefront of his mind, as if out of his control. He tried to clear his mind, his brow furrowing in concentration as he regained control of his thoughts. His jaw clenched in anger as he realized with a start what Snape was doing— what the professor had done many times before, without him knowing any better.

"You're using Legilimency on me, aren't you?"

What Theo had mentioned about Andromeda Tonks' Legilimency ability entered his mind.

_Is Snape a trained Legilimens too? How did I not see it, all this time?_

Draco felt like a fool.

Snape did not flinch as he replied, "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"And you claim to want to help me— please. I'm leaving," Draco announced, his chair thrust backwards as he rose from him seat.

The sound of the latch of Snape's office door locking echoed through the room.

"Let me out," Draco commanded icily. "I won't tolerate being treated like Potter."

"You would do well to ignore Potter and his friends," Snape all but ordered, "they are neither worth your time nor effort. Now you will return to your seat on your own volition, or I will be forced to resort to other means."

Draco rapidly turned on his heel and sat unceremoniously in the chair he had just vacated, gripping both arms of the chair in irritation, his face grimacing in pain. He again felt a slow trickle of fresh blood travel down his left wrist.

"Your Mark still pains you, I see," Snape observed, and Draco could have sworn he saw a shred of curiosity and worry flash across Snape's eyes.

"It was Granger— she re-opened it," Draco explained, the image of her fierce brown eyes flashing through his mind.

Snape knocked on the top of his desk impatiently, and Draco obliged the command, rolling up his bloody sleeve and placing his arm atop the desk's smooth surface. The coolness of the wood was soothing against his inflamed skin.

His Mark was still jagged and raw, a mangled mess of red and black, and he knew it had very little to do with Granger poking around in it.

"The more you resist, the more it will pain you. I advise you to find a way to accept the Mark as quickly as possible."

Snape had tended to Draco's Mark on more than one occasion, diminishing some of the physical redness and pain as much as was possible. Draco had merely begrudgingly obliged then, but the continued ache was exhausting— a daily reminder of his father's failure, of his own impossible mission. Tonight, he was grateful for Snape's silent healing spells.

"A general Healing lesson will occur once per week this term for all sixth and seventh-year students, but Professor Tonks is planning to offer additional lessons for students who are interested in learning more advanced techniques. You will sign up for this."

"I've got enough classwork this term, thanks," said Draco, despite Snape's clear instruction. "Wouldn't it be better to have as little interaction as possible with my dear blood-traitor aunt?"

"There is no denying her appointment is less than ideal, but her skill is rather _un_ deniable. Wouldn't you like to be able to minimize your own pain, should Granger get ahold of your arm— and your wand— again?"

Draco scowled at the unmasked insult. He reluctantly glanced at his mark before rolling his sleeve back into place; the pain had mostly eased, but his arm was still covered in dried blood. Snape had been sure to leave the clean-up for him.

"You have no choice in the matter… unless, of course, you'd prefer to _lessen_ your chances of survival. The way you're choosing to refuse my help, I do wonder if maybe you have a death wish."

"I don't want your help. I can do this alone."

It was a lie of course, but he didn't trust Snape, no matter how many times his professor tried to help him, no matter how skilled a Legilimens he really was.

"You are not a fool, Draco, and it concerns me you are choosing to act like one. I know of the task the Dark Lord has given you— it is impossible for most, but not for me, Draco… think of the benefits of my position—"

"No," Draco's voice was firm. This was _his_ task, and his alone. It was best to trust no one, and he was not so naive to think he could ever rely on some vague notion of camaraderie— he wasn't Potter, after all.

_Thank Merlin._

_It wouldn't hurt to have at least one competent person on my side, though,_ a small voice in Draco's mind whispered. The echo of his mother's advice chimed in, _'"It doesn't hurt to have an ally."'_

Draco admitted Crabbe and Goyle's blind loyalty was certainly useful, but a far, far cry from what he would call _helpful_.

He considered Granger for a fleeting moment, the way she'd jeopardized her Prefect status, the way she seemed not to simply break, but Bombarda her way through the rules time after time… for Potter, for her _friends_. He suddenly felt quite lonely— and despised himself for it.

He hated this too-familiar weakness, and tried to suffocate it whenever it reared its ugly head. Draco had never had the luxury of friendship, nor trust, and he was firmly entrenched in his own independence.

No, he was no Potter. And he wasn't about to act like him by putting Theo in harm's way.

"Perhaps, in time, you will see… think of your mother."

"Don't talk about my mother," Draco snapped. His mother had tried to help him all summer, to prepare him for his task, and he'd suspected she had sought Snape's guidance as well. Draco, of course, had refused her assistance at every opportunity; she was in enough danger already. How many times had his father put her in harm's way? He refused to do the same, to make his father's mistakes.

"Stay away from her, she— she's got enough to worry about," his voice cracked, and he abruptly rose from his seat to mask his additional display of weakness. Snape simply stared at him in silence.

"May I be excused, _Professor_?" Draco spat out the word.

Snape nodded, again saying nothing, his eyes boring into Draco's defiant expression. Without another word, Draco turned on his heel and disappeared into the hall.

Snape stared in contemplation at the empty doorway long after Draco had left.

/

A/N: Thank you for reading!


	10. House Unity

/

Hermione looked around Snape's Defense classroom as she entered, her arms leaden with a mountain of coursework, Harry and Ron by her side. Snape had imposed his personality upon the room already; it was gloomier than usual, as curtains had been drawn over the windows, and was lit by candlelight. New pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly injuries or strangely contorted body parts. Nobody spoke as they settled down, looking around at the shadowy, gruesome pictures. She grimaced and turned her attention instead to the students in the classroom.

Their small class was comprised of a mixture of students from all houses, including Malfoy, who she spotted out of the corner of her eye, looking as though he'd gotten about as much sleep as she had, which was very little, if any.

She wondered if he'd still be taking the class if it were not now taught by Snape, but she just as quickly realized she shouldn't really be surprised to see him, even though she'd rather not admit it; he was one of the best students in their year.

"I have not asked you to take out your books," Snape announced sharply, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk; Malfoy now forgotten, she hastily dropped her copy of _Confronting the Faceless_ back into her bag and stowed it under her chair. "I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention."

His black eyes roved over their upturned faces. She wasn't sure if she imagined it or not, but she could have sworn his gaze lingered upon her face for a fraction longer than anyone else's.

"You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe."

_Don't remind me,_ Hermione thought grimly.

"Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the

N.E.W.T. work, which will be more advanced."

Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view.

"The Dark Arts," said Snape, "are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible."

Snape's instruction oddly reminded her of Harry's description of defense.

"Your defenses," said Snape, a little louder, "must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo.

These pictures," he indicated a few of them as he swept past, "give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse" (he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly shrieking in agony) "feel the Dementor's Kiss" (a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall) "or provoke the aggression of the Inferius" (a bloody mass upon ground).

Hermione grimaced, her expression pained as she recalled Harry's near miss with Umbridge's 'Crucio'; she remembered her own panic, the moment before Dolohov's hex had struck her. She noticed Harry glance her way; she considered perhaps he was remembering the same.

"Has an Inferius been seen, then?" interrupted Parvati Patil in a high pitched voice. "Is it definite, is he using them?"

"The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past," said Snape, "which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now..."

He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him.

"... you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of non-verbal spells. What is the advantage of a non-verbal spell?"

She raised her hand into the air, ignoring Malfoy's quiet scoff. Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, making sure he had no choice, before saying curtly, "Very well—Miss Granger?"

"Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform," said Hermione, "which gives you a split-second advantage."

"An answer copied almost word for word from _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six_ ," said Snape dismissively, "but correct in essentials. Yes, those who progress in using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some, "his gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry, "lack."

Hermione knew Snape was of course referring to Harry's disastrous Occlumency lessons the previous year. She deeply regretted the fallout from the failure of these lessons, and she rather wished _she_ had had the opportunity to learn Occlumency. With impatience she watched as Harry refused to drop his gaze, glowering at Snape until the professor looked away.

_If only he could've put his prejudice aside,_ Hermione thought, thinking of Harry. _Things might've turned out differently. Sirius might be alive._

She inwardly shook her head.

_No— I can't think like that. It's not Harry's fault… it's Voldemort's. That's why we need Defense._

"You will now divide," Snape went on, "into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence— I will choose the pairs," Snape continued, interrupting the students who had already begun pairing up with their friends. "As Dumbledore made quite clear in his welcome speech, we must be thinking of _house unity_."

The disdainful tone in Snape's voice as he spoke the term 'house unity' made it quite clear how much he really cared for the sentiment.

Snape began partnering students, "Let's see, Miss Patil and Mister Longbottom… Mister Malfoy and Miss Granger…"

Hermione grimaced, but an uncontrolled sense of opportunity burned in her chest. She felt as though the necklace was throbbing against her throat, but really, it was just her beating heart.

She vaguely wondered if Malfoy's Dark Mark, the one she now assumed was there on his left forearm, still pained him from their encounter on the train.

_Maybe that will give me an advantage._

She turned in her seat to see a clearly displeased Malfoy whispering something to a smirking Nott, who had just been paired with Ron.

The room clattered with the shuffling of chairs and tables as everyone found their partners and places.

Hermione stood about six feet apart from Malfoy as they glared at one another in equal measure.

In truth, Draco was perturbed by Snape's choice of partners. He knew his appointment to Granger had been calculated and purposeful. It was clear to him Snape was trying to make a point, but Draco was determined not to give in.

_Pair me with her all term for all I care,_ Draco muttered inside his head, as if the professor could hear. _I'm not going to suddenly come running for help._

"Let's get this over with," Hermione sighed.

"I can assure you, it will be quick… but hardly painless."

"Go ahead, then," Hermione rolled her eyes and she saw Malfoy smirk in reply, "try to jinx me."

Try Draco did, without much success. He focused on the desired spell as much as his distracted, sleep-deprived mind would allow, but even as he closed his eyes in an attempt to shut out his surroundings, the image of Granger pressing a wand into his Mark flooded into view, and the feeling of Snape's scrutinizing gaze upon him from across the room interrupted his already weakened concentration.

Draco swore inwardly as he opened his eyes to find Granger mockingly examining her fingernails in boredom. He clenched his jaw in irritation, he was usually better at compartmentalizing.

As if to make his failure more acute, he overheard Snape award Theo thirty house points for his accurate, and silent, shielding of Weasley's accidentally verbalized Jelly-Legs jinx.

"Silence, Weasley, or do I need to send you to the hospital wing on the basis of acute memory loss?"

He could practically feel Theo's smugness from across the room, but Draco couldn't say he was exactly surprised his friend would excel at non-verbal spells.

His anger piqued, Draco attempted one last non-verbal jinx, and felt a tingle in his fingertips, as if his magic were aching to be released; but nothing happened.

"Forget it," he abdicated, furious with himself. He knew he'd need to learn non-verbal spells, and fast, if he hoped to survive this war. "Go ahead," he nodded to Granger.

She said nothing, and Draco watched intently as her eyes closed, her dark eyelashes capturing his gaze even from a distance. Hermione's face relaxed, tranquil but focused, and Draco discovered he did not want to look away.

Malfoy and the classroom faded away as Hermione closed her eyes in concentration. She'd read about non-verbal spells, of course, and knew they required extreme focus. She listened to her breath, in and out, and the steady beat of her heart, but again she could not ignore the cool sensation of the necklace at her throat, and the anger that came with it.

Without any sign of warning, Hermione's golden brown eyes abruptly snapped open, and her gaze met Draco's for an instant before her jinx burst forth, her lips never moving.

Suddenly, Draco found he no longer had control of his legs, and he toppled to the floor. Caught off-guard, he hadn't even attempted a shielding spell.

Across the room, Hermione saw Harry and Ron beaming at her. She smiled, trying not to look too pleased with herself.

Draco witnessed the exchange, and felt rather like vomiting.

_Pathetic,_ he thought, wondering why Granger still needed Potter and Weasley's approval, even though it had been clear to him for some time she was more powerful than they could ever hope to be.

Hermione turned back to Malfoy, who was brushing himself off, rising to his feet, and she was annoyed to find that he somehow managed to look as if he'd fallen to the floor on his own volition.

Snape glided over to them.

"It seems Mister Malfoy has also forgotten my instruction— you are to _shield_ yourself from your opponent's jinx. Well done, Miss Granger. Thirty points to Gryffindor," Snape spoke, ensuring the entire class could hear, his black pupils never moving from Draco.

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but knew Snape's praise was disingenuous; a thinly veiled extension of their conversation from the night before.

Hermione gawked at Snape's rare praise of her— of a Gryffindor— in disbelief, but she was even more surprised to find Malfoy shooting Snape a look of sheer loathing, one that rivaled the looks Harry reserved for the professor.

Snape's praise and Malfoy's look clearly had implications, the nature of which Hermione couldn't be certain.

_It can't be anything to do with what happened on the train… could it?_ She wondered. The Professor had only taken points from Gryffindor, not Slytherin, for their lateness to the feast. She resolved to bring it up with Harry later.

"You will now select a new partner of your own choosing," Snape announced to the class. Draco scowled at the confirmation that his partnering with Granger had not been random; Snape had hoped for him to fail against Granger, to make a point.

Hermione stepped forward, sarcastic words on the tip of her tongue, but as she met his gaze again, his light gray eyes cool and expectant, she found she was unable to formulate anything coherent.

"What, Granger, back for more?" Draco said, his eyebrow arched mockingly.

Still unable to piece together a worthy reply, Hermione remained silent, and turned to go and find Neville, as Ron and Harry had already partnered up.

Ten minutes into the second round, Hermione had managed to repel Neville's accidentally muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx without uttering a single word. This time, Snape ignored her success.

Snape continued to sweep between the students as they practiced, lingering to watch Harry and Ron struggling with the task.

Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Harry, was purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the mistake he'd made earlier with Nott. Hermione saw that Harry had his wand raised, waiting on tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever to come.

"Pathetic, Weasley," said Snape, after a while. "Here— let me show you—"

The professor turned his wand on Harry so fast that Harry no doubt reacted instinctively, yelling, "Protego!"

His Shield Charm was so strong Snape was knocked off-balance and hit a desk. The whole class had looked around and now watched as Snape righted himself, scowling.

"Do you remember me telling you we are practicing non-verbal spells, Potter?"

"Yes," said Harry stiffly.

"Yes, sir," replied Snape firmly.

"There's no need to call me 'sir,' Professor."

Hermione winced. _There go the house points I earned,_ she thought dryly.

Several people gasped. Draco and Theo rolled their eyes. Behind Snape, however, Ron, Dean, and Seamus grinned appreciatively.

"Detention, Saturday night, my office," said Snape. "I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter... not even the _Chosen One_."

/

A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this one. Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	11. Liquid Luck

/

"That was brilliant, Harry!" chortled Ron, once they were safely on their way to break a short while later.

"Not as brilliant as Hermione jinxing Malfoy," Harry smiled, bumping into her side playfully.

"Thank you, but you really shouldn't have said it, Harry," she said, frowning. "What made you?"

"He tried to jinx me, in case you didn't notice!" fumed Harry. "I had enough of that during those Occlumency lessons! Why doesn't he use another guinea pig for a change?"

"He wasn't so kind to Malfoy today, didn't you notice?"

"He's not so kind to _anyone_ on any given day, Hermione," Ron said dryly.

"It _was_ strange for him to give you house points though…" Harry agreed. "Even though you really deserved at least fifty."

Hermione couldn't hep but smile. "Something seemed off though— it was almost like Snape was actively trying to get under Malfoy's skin, like he does with you, Harry. And Malfoy was failing to hide how angry he was with Snape."

"Suppose that _was_ a bit strange— they've never been shy about how much they worship each other," Ron relented.

"You don't think…" Harry started, meeting Hermione's gaze.

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't know what, Hermione?" Ron asked, his expression one of confusion.

"Maybe Snape's got something to do with Malfoy's visit to Borgin's— maybe he knows about whatever Malfoy was trying to get Borgin to fix," Harry whispered.

"But that would mean—"

"Snape's knows Malfoy is a Death Eater," Harry explained. "And he's helping him. He's still a traitor."

"No, Harry— we can't just jump to conclusions like that, not without evidence. It's dangerous. Plus, we know that Dumbledore trusts Snape, and we trust Dumbledore, so—"

"Do we?" Harry asked, his green eyes fierce as they met hers again.

"What's Dumbledore playing at, anyway, letting Snape teach Defense? Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All that unfixed, indestructible stuff—"

"Well," said Hermione, "I thought he sounded a bit like you."

"Like me?"

"Yes, when you were telling us what it's like to face Voldemort. You said it wasn't just memorizing a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and your guts— well, wasn't that exactly what Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?"

Hermione saw Harry's cheeks redden, and she blushed herself, realizing she'd been unabashed with her praise. Neither of them noticed Ron roll his eyes.

She was conscious that something seemed to be shifting between the three of them, but whatever it was, she could admit she was not entirely bothered by it, and, recalling Harry's embrace from the night before, she realized she might even be rather _glad_ of it.

"Harry! Hey, Harry!"

Hermione looked around, thankful for the interruption; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year's Gryffindor Quidditch team, was hurrying toward Harry holding a roll of parchment.

"For you," panted Sloper. "Listen, I heard you're the new Captain. When're you holding trials?"

"I'm not sure yet," said Harry, "I'll let you know."

"Oh, right. I was hoping it'd be this weekend—"

Harry was clearly not listening; Hermione peered over his shoulder and saw thin, slanting writing on the parchment, and Dumbledore's signature.

The trio left Sloper in mid-sentence.

"He enjoys Acid Pops?" said Ron, who had read the message over Harry's other shoulder and was looking perplexed.

"It's the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study," said Harry in a low voice. "Ha! Snape's not going to be pleased... I won't be able to do his detention!"

Malfoy momentarily forgotten, Harry, Ron, and Hermione spent the whole of break speculating on what Dumbledore would teach Harry. Ron thought it most likely to be spectacular jinxes and hexes of the type the Death Eaters would not know. Hermione knew such things were illegal, and thought it much more likely that Dumbledore wanted to teach Harry advanced Defensive magic.

After break, she left Harry and Ron to head to Arithmancy. Thankfully, Malfoy either hadn't earned the grade to take N.E.W.T. level Arithmancy, or he had just chosen not to continue the subject, as Nott was the only Slytherin in attendance. Glancing at Nott working diligently at a desk across the classroom, Hermione was thankful there'd be no chance of being required to pair up with anyone in Arithmancy.

She joined Harry and Ron for lunch, and they had only just finished when the bell rang for the afternoon's double Potions. While Harry and Ron hadn't earned the grade to continue Potions with Snape, now that Slughorn was teaching, McGonagall had told them both they were qualified to continue— much to Harry's joy and Ron's annoyance.

Together, they beat the familiar path down to the dungeon classroom that had, for so long, been Snape's.

When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Hermione scowled to see that four Slytherins had made it through, including Malfoy and Nott.

_Lovely,_ Hermione thought to herself, thinking she'd be spending more time than she'd ever imagined with Nott and Malfoy this year.

She noted that four Ravenclaws were also in the class, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, whom she found rather pompous.

"Harry," Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand as they approached, "didn't get a chance to speak in Defense Against The Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson, I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of course, for us old D.A. lags... And how are you, Ron—Hermione?"

Before they could say more than "fine," the dungeon door opened and Slughorn's belly preceded him out of the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus mustache curved above his beaming mouth, and Hermione noted the professor greeted Harry, Malfoy, Nott, and Zabini with particular enthusiasm.

Noting the same, Harry shot her a comically exasperated look, and Hermione smiled.

Across the room, Draco witnessed their exchange, and felt as though he could vomit.

"At least you're not taking Arithmancy with her too," Theo mumbled.

Draco merely nodded in silence, thinking Granger alone was a reasonable irritant when compared to Potter and Granger as a pair.

"How the hell did Weasley make it?" Theo asked quietly as they took their seats at a table with Zabini and Davis.

"Granger, of course— how else do you think that git's made it to sixth year at all?"

But Draco saw Theo wasn't listening; his friend was eyeing a cauldron filled with a colorless liquid as though it might jump out and attack him at any moment.

Draco recognized the potion as Veritaserum, and wondered what possible preexisting objection Theo could possibly have to it.

The dungeon was full of other various potions and vapors as well, and Hermione sniffed interestedly as she passed large, bubbling cauldrons.

She joined Harry, Ron, and Ernie at a table nearest a gold-colored cauldron that was emitting one of the most seductive scents she had ever inhaled; she recognized the potion right away, and found that she was breathing very slowly and deeply, and that the potion's fumes seemed to be filling her up like drink. A great contentment stole over her; she grinned across at Harry, who grinned back dreamily.

"Now then, now then, now then," said Slughorn, whose massive outline was quivering through the many shimmering vapors. "Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don't forget your copies of _Advanced Potion-Making..._ "

"Sir?" said Harry, raising his hand.

"Harry, m'boy?"

"I haven't got a book or scales or anything—nor's Ron—we didn't realize we'd be able to do the N.E.W.T., you see—"

"Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention... not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I'm sure we can lend you some scales, and we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts..."

Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after a moment's foraging, emerged with two very battered-looking copies of _Advanced Potion-Making_ by Libatius Borage, which he gave to Harry and Ron along with two sets of tarnished scales.

"Now then," said Slughorn, returning to the front of the class and inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst off, "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of them, even if you haven't made them yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?"

He indicated the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table. Trying not to catch Malfoy's eye, Hermione raised herself slightly in her seat and saw what looked like plain water boiling away inside it.

She recognized it right away, and raised her hand; Slughorn pointed at her.

"It's Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth."

_Ironic, seeing as it's at Malfoy's table._

"Very good, very good!" said Slughorn happily. "Now," he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, "this one here is pretty well known... Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too... Who can—?"

She'd noticed it immediately on their way to their table, and had grimaced at the memory of her hours of labor, its taste, and her embarrassing transformation into Millicent Bulstrode's cat.

Draco too had noticed it upon entering the room, as he'd spent a good amount of his summer brewing it. He now had a hefty store of it in his trunk lying in wait at the foot of his bed.

Hermione's hand was fastest once more.

"lt's Polyjuice Potion, sir," she said.

"Excellent, excellent! Now, this one... yes, my dear?" said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, as she couldn't resist raising her hand again.

"It's Amortentia."

"It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask," said Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, "but I assume you know what it does?"

She could practically feel the judgmental eyes of the other students upon her, a pair of gray ones in particular, but she didn't care.

"It's the most powerful love potion in the world," she explained simply.

"Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?"

"And the steam rising in characteristic spirals," she continued enthusiastically, "and it's supposed to smell differently to each of according to what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and—"

She halted mid-sentence, recognizing the third aroma; the painfully familiar masculine scent that was simultaneously warm and cool, something deeply woody yet clear and refined. She felt herself turning pink in horror at the recognition, and did not complete the sentence.

_It's just a chemical reaction,_ Hermione reasoned, her mind racing to objectively rationalize her attraction to the scent she recognized as Malfoy's. _Ridiculous hormones._

Across the room, Draco had paused mid eye-roll out of an impulsive curiosity, unknowingly leaning forward in his chair, as if inching closer would somehow allow him to read Hermione's mind.

Beside him, Theo watched his friend's reaction to Hermione's response with deep interest… and concern.

_What was Granger about to say?_ Draco wondered. _What else did she smell?_

He started to wonder what he would detect, if the Amortentia had been in range. Draco admitted freshly mown grass didn't sound so bad, and was reminded of the Manor's garden in the summer. Impulsively, he remembered Granger's subtly floral, yet warm cardamom-like scent.

"May I ask your name, my dear?" said Slughorn to Hermione, interrupting his thoughts.

Across the room, Hermione was thankful Slughorn ignored her embarrassment.

"Hermione Granger, sir."

"Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"

"No. I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see."

"Better be prepared to see Granger at all of Slughorn's little gatherings," Nott whispered. Draco rolled his eyes, but he couldn't say he was surprised; unlike Theo, Hermione had never been one to conceal her knowledge and skill.

Draco and Theo's exchange went unnoticed as Slughorn beamed and looked from Hermione to Harry, who was sitting next to her.

"Oho! 'One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!' I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry proudly.

Malfoy looked—and felt— rather as he had done earlier that day when Hermione had jinxed him.

"Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger," said Slughorn genially.

Hermione felt a warmth surge inside her chest as she turned to Harry and whispered, "Did you really tell him I'm the best in the year? Oh, Harry!"

"Well, what's so impressive about that?" whispered Ron, who for some reason looked annoyed. "You are the best in the year—anyone would've told him so!"

At the Slytherin table, perturbed, Draco was unwittingly gripping the table's edge. Theo warily scrutinized his friend's reaction.

"Jealous of Granger, are we? Or maybe it's Potter you're jealous of?" Theo whispered quietly so none of the other Slytherins at their table could hear. "Want me to nick a bit of that Amortentia for you?"

"Watch it, Nott. We're not in Defense anymore. No non-verbal nonsense required."

Theo smirked and gestured to Draco's death grip on the table's edge, "I think I'm safe… seems you prefer to take your anger out on inanimate objects these days."

Draco looked to his hands, saw his knuckles glowing white, and hastily retreated them to his sides, turning his attention back to Slughorn, who was again addressing the rest of the class.

"Amortentia doesn't really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room—"

Draco again unwittingly wondered what he would smell if he neared the potion.

"Or maybe you nipped a bit on your way in? Big plans this term, Draco?" Theo whispered, smirking.

"Oh yes," Slughorn continued, misinterpreting Theo's smirk and whispered comment to Draco as one of skepticism. "When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love…"

The Professor looked away, his eyes glazed over.

"Can't imagine who in their right mind would obsess over him, even with the Amortentia," Theo coughed purposefully, stifling a laugh. Draco rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"And now," said Slughorn, coming to at the sound of Theo's cough. "It is time for us to start work."

"Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one," said Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. The potion within was splashing about merrily; it was the color of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled.

"Oho," said Slughorn again.

Hermione got the feeling that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect.

"Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it," he turned, smiling, to look at her, "that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?"

"It's liquid luck," said Hermione excitedly. "It makes you lucky!"

The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter, but her eyes darted to the Slytherin table, where Hermione could see Draco was giving Slughorn his full and undivided attention.

_Interesting,_ Hermione thought.

"Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis," said Slughorn.

"Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed ... at least until the effects wear off."

"Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?" said Terry Boot eagerly.

"Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence," said Slughorn. "Too much of a good thing, you know... highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally..."

"Have you ever taken it, sir?" asked Michael Corner with great interest.

"Twice in my life," said Slughorn. "Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days."

He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was playacting or not, thought Hermione, the effect was good.

"And that," said Slughorn, apparently coming back to earth, "is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson."

There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold.

"One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis," said Slughorn, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all.

"Enough for twelve hours' luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt."

"So," said Slughorn, suddenly brisk, "how are you to win this fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of _Advanced Potion Making_. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!"

Hermione felt as though she were vibrating from the inside out— she was determined to win that potion. She glanced at Harry and her mind raced with all the possibilities for its use— all the good she could do with it, and, knowing of the dangers of war that likely lay ahead, she considered it could be life-saving.

She again looked across the room at the Slytherin table. By the frenzied expression now gracing Malfoy's typically polished features, she knew for certain he was as desperate as she was to win. She noted Nott too seemed unusually motivated, rifling feverishly through his copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_.

Hermione shook her head to re-center herself and set to work instantly. Harry and Ron and the rest of the classroom faded away as she focused intently on the task at hand.

About half an hour passed, and despite her perfect execution of the textbook's directions, her potion was not progressing as she had hoped. She frowned in frustration at its resolute purple coloring.

Hermione could feel a bead of sweat drip down her brow as she toiled over her cauldron, looking up only when Harry asked to borrow her knife.

She obliged, and glanced over to find his borrowed textbook covered in messy notes, no doubt from a previous owner. She frowned at the clear disrespect of a textbook. A few moments later, she was shocked to see Harry's potion had transformed into the desired shade of lilac.

"How are you doing that?" she asked desperately, feeling her hair growing bushier and bushier in the humid fumes from her hopeless cauldron.

"My book— the notes say to add a clockwise stir—" Harry said.

"But— the book says counterclockwise," she explained, looking back to her own book to check she hadn't been mistaken.

Across the table, she could hear Ron cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Hermione glanced around, and as far as she could see, no one else's potion had turned as pale as Harry's.

Through her despair, she was pleased to see Malfoy wiping sweat from his brow, his hair looking as relatively as disheveled as her own. Hermione smiled to herself at the sight. Nott looked as though he might chuck his cauldron, complete with its purple potion, across the room at any moment.

"And time's... up!" Called Slughorn. Hermione sighed in defeat. "Stop stirring, please!"

_At least it's Harry who won,_ Hermione considered, _he needs it the most._

_Although…_

Hermione considered Harry had had his fair share of luck in the past, even without Felix Feicis, and the flash of desperation and fear she'd seen in Malfoy's eyes on the train along with his uncharacteristic behavior in Knockturn Alley continued to nag at her.

_Maybe Harry doesn't need Felix Felicis most after all._

Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached the table where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie were sitting. He smiled ruefully at the tar-like substance in Ron's cauldron. He passed over Ernie's navy concoction. Hermione's potion he gave an approving nod. Then he saw Harry's, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face.

"The clear winner!" he cried to the dungeon.

"How do you think he managed it?" Theo asked Draco quietly, vanishing his failed potion with a swift wave of his wand.

"Granger, probably." Draco frowned as he began to pack up his things. He didn't feel like talking about Granger and Potter for a second longer. The hope of winning a bit of luck had been small, but it had been the most hopeful he'd felt in ages— a chance at success.

_Nothing's changed,_ he thought defeatedly. _Still royally screwed._

"Can't be, didn't you see hers? It wasn't as light as Potter's."

"I don't know, Theo, maybe she was so focused on helping Potter she screwed herself over. Wouldn't be the first time, would it? I— don't— care," he whispered with finality.

"Excellent, excellent, Harry!" Slughorn continued across the room. "Good lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at Potions, Lily was! And Miss Granger, too, what skill, you're nearly there. Here you are, then, here you are— one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!"

"Are you sure about that?" Theo whispered to Draco, "You seem to care an awful lot about Gra—"

" _Don't—_ " Draco interrupted, his voice darkly serious. "Look, Theo, I know you wanted to win. Don't you think I had a _very good_ reason to want to win too?"

"And what reason might that be _exactly—_ "

"No," Draco said with finality as he headed toward the door, turning abruptly, leaving Theo behind.

Hermione watched Harry slip the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, beaming in her direction. She managed an exhausted smile in return. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.

Although suspicious of his means, Hermione was glad Harry had won.

_He'll need all the luck he can get with Dumbledore this year,_ she reasoned.

But something else nagged at her, something greater than the disappointment of her failed ambition, something that felt an awful lot like fear…

How could she ignore a chance at liquid luck? Harry had some now, sure, but ultimately _he_ would be the one to decide how to use it.

_And his choices,_ she thought grimly, _don't always end well… even when luck seems to be on his side._

In the time it took for Harry and Ron to pack their things, Hermione had formulated a plan.

"I'll catch up," she told them as they headed for the door. They looked to her questioningly, so she managed another small smile and urged them ahead. "I just have a question for Slughorn."

Harry and Ron disappeared into the hall, and when it appeared all the other students had left, Hermione meandered her way up to Slughorn's desk, behind which he sat, busy humming to himself while sorting various ingredients into a small chest filled with drawers.

"Miss Granger! What a lesson, wouldn't you say? You and Mr. Potter make quite the set, but surely you know this already. What can I do for you?"

"Professor, it _was_ a great lesson… the best we've ever had, I think," Hermione said, not untruthfully. She'd never seen Ron work so diligently in Potions— or in any class, now that she considered it.

"Made better by your input, I'd say," Slughorn winked merrily.

"Thank you, sir… but I— I feel rather cheated."

"Cheated? Surely you don't accuse Harry—"

"No, no—" Hermione said hurriedly, "Nothing like that. I only mean that I feel we ought to have tried to brew Felix Felicis ourselves."

Slughorn smiled broadly, "Oho, Miss Granger! You are full of surprises, and ambition to boot… my dear, are you sure you were sorted into the correct house? I detect Slytherin in you."

Hermione tried to keep her face neutral as she resisted the urge to vomit.

"I know I'm going to learn so much in your class this year, but I would love the opportunity to learn _more—_ Professor Snape never offered us any extra curricular—"

"My dear Miss Granger," Slughorn interjected, "I do not doubt your talents, but I did not exaggerate earlier when I described Felix Felicis as desperately tricky to make… not to mention the dangers if done wrong…"

"You could oversee my progress, sir, for safety."

Slughorn smiled and looked away dreamily for a moment, as if remembering something from long ago, "I dare say you remind me of Lily Evans more than her own son— but if you're looking for an extra curricular, why not attempt Draught of Living Death again, or, if you insist on an absolute challenge, try Polyjuice—"

"But I already successfully brewed Polyjuice Potion, professor," Hermione explained plainly, knowing she had to admit her forbidden activity if she was to have any hope at convincing Slughorn, "during my second year."

"Polyjuice— your _second_ year? My word… in secret no doubt, hm?"

Hermione produced her sweetest innocent smile in response; just as she'd expected, it was clear Slughorn was both amused and intrigued.

"The Slytherin in me is in awe of your ambition and cunning, and again, I do not doubt your skill— Polyjuice! Second year… but attempting Felix Felicis on your own, even under my supervision, and managing all of your N.E.W.T. levels, of which I'm sure you have many, would be a fool's endeavor."

"I could help."

Hermione jumped at the sound of Nott's voice emanating from the back of the room. Slughorn looked up in surprise.

Hermione turned to see Nott's face emerge from behind an enormous book. Neither she nor Slughorn had noticed his silent presence in the shadows of the classroom.

"Speaking of Slytherin— Mister Nott, you have an interest in Miss Granger's proposition?"

Hermione frowned as Nott closed his book, rose from his seat, and joined her at Slughorn's desk, wearing his most charming grin.

_Malfoy's wearing off on him._

"Yes, sir, a particular interest in something as challenging— and of course potentially as rewarding— as Felix Felicis. You'll remember my grandfather had quite a passion for Potions… I believe he passed it down to me."

"That's right," Slughorn nodded approvingly, addressing Hermione again, "Mister Nott's grandfather, Nehemiah, had the largest collection of— well, never mind _what_ exactly, but I can assure you, it was immense, and immensely _useful_ for a potioneer. A group project… now that is something I may be more inclined to support. Dumbledore did mention the importance of unity, and in this particular case I quite agree."

_If I have to hear one more thing about unity this year, I'll—_ Hermione thought.

"I tend to work best alone," Hermione said quickly, knowing her protest was feeble, but the thought of spending any more time with Nott this year— she was almost certain they had every class together, except maybe Transfiguration— was most unpleasant.

"So do I, but I think Professor Slughorn is right, don't you?" Said Theo, laying it on thick.

Hermione scowled. It was clear he wanted Felix Felicis as badly as she did.

_But why?_ She wondered if it had anything to do with Malfoy.

_Not everything's about Malfoy,_ another voice in her head chimed.

"And the need for—" Hermione could tell Nott had to force the words out,

"—house unity— is great. Logically speaking we're more likely to succeed together, wouldn't you agree?"

She most certainly did _not_ agree.

"Well said, m'boy, well said. It's decided then, you two will impart on the project together, under my supervision! I will supply the ingredients of course, glad to contribute. And no need to bother Dumbledore or your Heads of House… no, no— no need," Slughorn explained, as if convincing himself it was a good idea.

"I trust I do not need to tell you both that I will intervene should your performance in this classroom becomes less than satisfactory, or if I get word you are struggling in your other classes—"

Hermione could see any further attempt at arguing would surely fail. She enjoyed Nott as much as she enjoyed the sight of a Blast-Ended Skrewt, but the chance to make Felix Felicis was just too tempting.

"Of course," Hermione agreed quickly.

"We'll arrange the details after our next Potions lesson?" Nott asked.

"And to think I had hesitations about coming out of retirement! The first week of term has been nothing short of thrilling. Now, be off you two, until our next meeting!"

Theo and Hermione exited the classroom together. When they were sure they were out of Slughorn's earshot, Theo turned to face her.

"What're you up to, Granger?"

"You heard me tell Slughorn— an extra-curricular."

"Right. And I'm sure the little second-year Polyjuice experiment you mentioned was purely extra-curricular, too. Isn't it enough Potter's already won Felix? Need some for yourself? Or is he not exactly the sharing type?"

She stopped abruptly and turned to face Nott head-on, her hair, and her gaze, as wild as ever. She was exhausted— it had been a day of challenges and failures, and more prevalently, she felt she'd already had more than enough of Malfoy and Nott this term.

"It seems to me that a certain _friend_ of yours might be in dire need of some luck this year. Your sudden interest in extra-curricular potion-making wouldn't have anything to do with that, would it?"

She was pleased to see she had broken through Nott's typically cool demeanor.

Theo gaped at her in surprise as she turned on her heel, in much the same way Draco had done earlier, and disappeared down the hall.

/

A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter :) More Theo to come.


	12. The New Professor

/

Their first Healing class came the second week into term, and, after Snape's instruction, it had come to no surprise to Draco that Professor Tonks offered additional classes every week for those students interested in delving deeper into the subject; however, he _had_ been surprised to discover just how eerily similar his disowned aunt's appearance was to that of her sister's— his mother's.

He'd seen Professor Tonks' in the Great Hall the night of the welcome feast, but from a distance, and his mind had been rather otherwise preoccupied.

Sitting in her classroom now, Draco did a double take each time she moved a mere inch. She was shorter than his mother and Aunt Bellatrix, and where his mother's hair was straight and blonde and Bellatrix's wild and dark, the professor's was wavy and light brown. But the family resemblance in their facial features was undeniable; there was no doubt she was the sister of Narcissa and Bellatrix Black. Draco also couldn't shake the feeling that each time he looked down at the grapefruit he and Theo were currently using for suturing practice— he felt as though his aunt's penetrating gaze was upon him, seeing _through_ him.

"You're going to reduce this grapefruit to pulp if you keep jumping like that. Look, I'll admit, there's a strong family resemblance, but what did you expect… they're _sisters_. She wasn't disowned because she _looked_ different…"

"How would you like it if _your_ aunt—"

"Wouldn't know, haven't got one. Haven't got any living blood relations, really, except dear old dad. Although… I think I might have a great-great half uncle Boris… but father says we are not to talk about him. Anyway, Tonks here has got nothing on our Sissy," Theo said, lazily waving his wand. The lengthwise cut in the grapefruit vanished, leaving behind nothing more than a faint line where the "wound" had been.

In contrast, Draco's suturing attempts had been dismal and incomplete, the fruit's red flesh within always raw and exposed. He was beginning to believe he just wasn't cut out for healing, nor for repair work of any kind— his lack of progress with mending the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things was proof enough of that.

Across the room, Draco noticed Granger and Potter equally as jumpy, as if preparing to hex the professor should she make any sudden movement. There was no doubt they also noticed the family resemblance. Draco smirked lopsidedly at Hermione's frown, their discomfort but a small consolation.

"I know we're not usually ones for silver linings, but this class is going to be useful— with war and whatnot, and your new _responsibilities_."

Draco glared at Theo, then glanced again toward Harry and Hermione, who were healing a grapefruit of their own, and more successfully, to his consternation. "Shut it—"

"You think Potter and Granger are paying us any attention? They're too busy plotting which hex they'll use first if dear disowned aunty suddenly decides she picked the wrong side after all."

Draco rolled his eyes and with an easy flick of his wand sliced through the grapefruit's rind again, the bitter juice leaking onto the table. He was better at destruction and pain, at tearing things apart.

It used to give him a sense of pride, of power… but now he wasn't so sure how he felt about it.

"You're going to sign up for those extra classes, right?" Theo asked, again mending the fruit with ease.

"As if I haven't got enough work already— and _you_ called _me_ a masochist."

"Merely taking advantage of an opportunity, y'know, the Slytherin way— or something like that. Plus, maybe aunty's extra classes will focus a bit on Legilimency and Occlumency."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's just say I'm as well acquainted with your aunt's work as I hope to be with Sissy's—"

"One more word, Nott, and you're going to end up looking like Weasley and Longbottom's grapefruit."

Theo grinned, despite the shockingly mangled appearance of said grapefruit a few tables over.

"No worries, your aunt will fix me right up… she's one of the country's most renowned Healers… _and_ Legilimens. Probably Occlumens too, if I had to guess. If you'd actually taken your head out of your arse when I told you that at the welcome feast you would've known that already."

Draco was intrigued not only because of his suspicions about Snape's Legilimens status, but because he knew Voldemort was exceptionally skilled at Legilimency, and had no qualms about using it to find answers, to pray on the weaknesses of others.

Draco knew but a few things for sure about Andromeda Tonks, mostly through the disparaging remarks of others, as his mother hadn't spoken more than one sentence about her in his presence over the course of his entire life; Andromeda was a Healer at St. Mungo's, she had been disowned from her family— the Black family— long ago for marrying a half-blood, her daughter was Nymphadora Tonks, Auror and Order member, his aunt Bellatrix absolutely despised the lot of the Tonks family.

_Maybe I should learn more,_ Draco considered.

The thought of protecting his mind was deeply alluring— he hadn't been able to protect himself from Voldemort's Crucio, nor from the Mark branded into his arm… but if there was a way to safeguard his _mind,_ the essence of who he was, well, maybe he could feel more confident knowing he wasn't going to end up like the empty shell that his father had become.

Draco cringed at the memory of the vacancy in his father's eyes just before he'd been sent to Azkaban.

Maybe he could use Occlumency to protect his mother and home, and maybe… he could use it to survive. He'd both seen and heard of Voldemort's Legilimency power, and knew it was only a matter of time before the Dark Lord used this power to look into his mind, to check on his progress— and to be sure his intentions aligned with his plans.

Draco knew Snape would likely oblige a request for Occlumency lessons, but he trusted the man about as much as he trusted Potter.

_Can I trust her?_ He wondered.

"Those extra classes are sounding pretty good to you now, eh?" Theo smirked knowingly, much to Draco's irritation. "I know you must fancy the thought of sharing yet another lesson with Granger, too."

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but Professor Tonks addressed the class just as his lips parted.

"Class, that will be all for today. Please do not forget to sign up for the extra classes should you have interest. You can expect a scheduling update by tomorrow afternoon."

The classroom echoed with the sound of scraping chairs, chatter, and the thunks of rogue rolling grapefruits as Slytherins and Gryffindors headed for the door. Draco moved slowly, a plan now clear in his mind.

"Coming?" Theo asked expectantly.

Draco shook his head, and again, Theo grinned, again with irritating knowingness. "And you said you didn't want my help…" his voice trailed away as he headed toward the exit.

Draco made his way toward the front of the room, where Professor Tonks was stooping to collect the lingering grapefruits.

"Professor?"

He watched as his aunt, by blood alone, looked up to meet his gaze, her expression impassive. Whatever opinions she had about him, there was no way for Draco to know. He considered his own mother for a moment, contemplated the sort of tactics he'd successfully utilized when he'd wanted something from her.

_Mum_ loathes _indirectness,_ he thought, remembering how _s_ he'd made that abundantly clear on more than one occasion. His mother much preferred a more direct route.

' _"Just tell me what you seek, dear,"'_ Draco remembered her saying to him throughout his childhood. _"'Lest we both waste time.'"_

_They might look alike,_ _but Tonks_ isn't _your mum,_ a voice in his head argued.

But it was all he had to go on. He knew he needed her to like him, to try to persuade her to teach him Occlumency.

"Yes, Mister Malfoy? Do you have a question about the lesson?"

"No, I want to sign up for the extra classes."

Andromeda simply nodded and slid the parchment across her desk. He spotted Hermione's name immediately, along with Harry's.

_How did Granger let Weasley weasel his way out of it?_ Draco wondered with mild amusement, noting Ron's name absent from the list.

Draco signed his name in silence, and looked up to find Tonks studying him unabashedly. He met her gaze with firmness.

"I also wanted to say— my mum's opinions, and Bellatrix's…" he paused, "…and my father's— they are not my own."

Her eyes betrayed no emotion, but Draco could have sworn he saw her eyebrows raise a fraction higher.

"Certainly not," she nodded. "We are each our own individuals, but I appreciate you making that clear."

Draco nodded in silence, and moved toward the door.

"Mister Malfoy—"

He paused and turned his head to meet her gaze again.

"I will not undermine the importance of family, but I hope we can agree we are not simply the sum of the properties of our blood… nor our blood relations. I look forward to seeing you in our next class."

_/_

"He came to me, Severus."

Andromeda's office at Hogwarts was small, but more spacious than the one she used as her own at St. Mungo's. She and Snape occupied two high-backed chairs by the fire, their hands warmed by the tea in their cups. The room smelled of Darjeeling.

"He continues to refuse my help," Snape described plainly.

Andromeda nodded, feeling an odd, involuntary swell of pride in her nephew.

"You must teach him," Snape continued, the reflection of the flames in the hearth bringing no warmth to his eyes.

"He signed up for my extra classes— of his own accord. The Nott boy, too."

Andromeda couldn't shake the feeling that there was something exceptionally familiar about Theodore Nott, as if she had met him before. It was certainly a feeling she couldn't shake, but reasoned it was likely a mere coincidence.

"It's a start," said Snape, ignoring her mention of Nott. "But I now of course refer to Occlumency."

"Occlumency? You still can't possibly—"

"Was I mistaken in thinking you are a master of the art?"

Andromeda was beginning to lose her patience. "Severus, it took me years—"

"The skill will only serve to better his chance— and _Narcissa's_ chance— at survival. Of this I am sure. The Dark Lord is a ruthless, and powerful, Legilimens."

Andromeda internally winced at the pang of fear she felt in her heart at Snape's mention of her sister.

"He's too young."

It was a bit of a lie; it _had_ taken her years to master Occlumency and certainly Legilimency, but, looking back, she'd begun her own practice in childhood, shielding her true thoughts— and the beginnings of her dissension— from her often cruel and always prejudiced family.

"It's true Draco is impulsive, and he can let his… emotions— get the better of him," Snape frowned. Andromeda tried not to grin in amusement at Snape's comical distaste for the subject of his student's emotions.

She remembered the vast, and changeable, array of emotions she'd noted in Draco's expression and body language throughout her class earlier that day; surprise, fear, determination, exasperation, envy, and a less-than-subtle preoccupancy with Mister Potter and Miss Granger.

"A commonality amongst most sixth and seventh-year students, I think," Andromeda added.

"Of this there is no doubt— but Draco has skill, and intelligence, and drive… when it suits him," Snape elaborated.

"Well, if you feel it's the only way… but I can't just offer Occlumency lessons to him out of the blue… won't that seem incredibly suspicious?"

"Obviously," said Snape, prolonging every syllable of the word. "Which is why you must lead him to it."

"If you would simply explain the task he's been given—"

"It would only serve to put you, Draco, and Narcissa in even more danger," Snape replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Andromeda took a long sip of her tea, swallowed, then sighed.

"You know, Severus, the road of deceit is a treacherous one. Not all of us can be— nor should we be— masters in the art of manipulation."

"Perhaps not," Snape uttered, his eyes never moving from the fire in the hearth, "but I will let you decide who among us is the master of self-delusion."

/

A/N: I hope you're enjoying Andromeda's character development- I wish there was more about her in canon. Thank you for reading! Reviews are appreciated. 


	13. War

/

As Hermione had predicted, the sixth-years' free periods were not the hours of blissful relaxation Ron had anticipated, but times in which to attempt to keep up with the vast amount of homework they were being set. Not only were they studying as though they had exams every day, but the lessons themselves had become more demanding than ever before. Non-verbal spells were now expected, not only in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but in Charms and Transfiguration too.

Brewing Felix Felicis was already taking up a disproportionate amount of her time; luckily, at this phase of the potion, she and Nott generally managed to successfully alternate brewing responsibilities, forced to share the cramped room where the potion was kept, hardly larger than a broom closet, only on a rare occasion. Thankfully, these shared moments had so far been spent in focused silence.

Hermione had decided not to tell Harry and Ron about Felix. She knew Ron would think she was mad, and she knew Harry would be somewhat pleased purely for the opportunity to try to get more information about Malfoy through Nott.

She didn't deny this opportunity to learn more about Malfoy, and she had every intention to use it wisely, but, with the sings of an oncoming war in the face of every Auror stationed in and around the castle and in every article in the _Daily Prophet_ , her primary motivation was liquid luck.

Harry's best subject had suddenly become Potions, thanks to the Half-Blood Prince, and Hermione grew more and more suspicious of the book with each Potion's lesson.

She was glad to see Harry taking more of an interest in Potions, and even enjoying it, but she felt he was, as usual, disregarding his own safety.

"You can't be sure those directions will always give you good results, it's dangerous… it's the reason why potions are tested and trialed and tested again and again before their instructions are distributed—"

"I'll be all right, Hermione," Harry had assured her, "I'm only using it in class."

Hermione highly doubted it, having also spied a novel spell or two written in the margins of the book.

Perhaps if she had more free time, she would've been able to devote more effort toward convincing Harry to avoid the book, but she found herself so busy, she'd barely even thought about the necklace again, even though it remained clasped around her throat.

It was only for a few moments each evening, exhausted beyond the point of caring, that she remembered its presence, and, often idly holding the joined rings of the necklace in her hand, promptly fell asleep.

_At least I'm sleeping now,_ she thought dryly as she ate breakfast with Harry and Ron the Saturday morning of Gryffindor's Quidditch tryouts.

"I hate not talking to Hagrid," she told them, noting Hagrid's absence at the head table, which had been a frequent occurrence as of late. She felt the half-giant was surely avoiding them. They hadn't managed to speak to him yet, and she hated to think he was upset with them; plus, she missed him quite a lot.

"We'll go down after Quidditch," Harry assured her. "I miss him too," he added with a small smile, which she returned.

"But trials might take all morning, the number of people who have applied. I dunno why the team's this popular all of a sudden."

_Of course you don't,_ she thought in dry amusement.

"Oh, come on, Harry," she said. "It's not Quidditch that's popular, it's you! You've never been more interesting, and frankly, you've never been more fanciable."

Ron promptly gagged on a large piece of kipper.

She knew she was right— she'd heard enough of the chatter in the girl's dormitory, not to mention the comments in the loo. Suddenly, it seemed nearly every female student in Hogwarts wanted to date Harry, and truthfully, it was beginning to drive her a bit mad.

But she wasn't about to examine exactly _why_ it was driving her mental.

Across the hall, Draco observed Harry, Hermione, and Ron's interaction from the Slytherin table, feigning interest in the thick book propped open before him.

Hermione's comment about Harry's fanciable-ness made him feel as though he'd like to slam his head inside said book.

He was eating alone this morning; Theo was otherwise engaged. With what, Draco didn't know, but he couldn't help but shake the feeling his friend was _up_ to something, and was purposefully withholding whatever that something was. He didn't mind eating alone, however.

_Thank Merlin Parkinson's avoiding me._ Draco was relieved to note that she seemed to at last have taken his many— rather blatant— hints after their painful exchange a few days ago.

He'd been sitting by the fire in the Slytherin Common Room, a hearth that never really seemed to emit any warmth, no matter how large the flame. He'd deep in thought, rolling his ring between his fingertips— an action which had become habitual. The word "Library" glowed inside the curved platinum.

He was busy imagining what Granger might be studying in the library when he was startled by Parkinson's unceremoniously appearance beside him, her overtly fruity perfume assaulting his nostrils. Without warning, she plucked the ring from his fingertips only to place it on the ring finger of her left hand.

"For me, Draco? How sudden! And is this a family heirloom? Of course you'd know I'd accept nothing less."

"I don't have time for this, Parkinson," he growled. She frowned at the use of her surname, but was otherwise nonplussed.

"Don't you like the ring on my finger though, Draco? You know, my parents got married right after graduation, that's less than two years away for us."

She held out her hand, admiring the ring. Draco withheld the overpowering urge to cut off her finger right then and there, utterly repulsed by the thought of marrying Pansy Parkinson.

"No. I don't. Now give it back, and please, Parkinson; leave— me— alone."

Undeterred, she wrapped her arm around him and swung her legs into his lap. There was a time, not all that long ago, when Draco would have amused her, let her hang all over him— he would have even reveled in the attention. But he could no longer stand the sight of her, nor the sound of her voice. Draco could barely stand his _own_ reflection in the mirror these days. All she cared about was wealth, status, blood purity, and of course, servitude to the Dark Lord and his mission. Draco's aims hadn't really been that much different all that long ago, but his life was different now, _he_ was different now.

He stood abruptly, and she toppled to the floor with a squeal of consternation and surprise. He didn't notice the eyes of his fellow Slytherins around the room gawking at the exchange, many of them sniggering at Parkinson's expense.

He did not hesitate as he aimed his wand in her direction. He saw fear in her expression, and felt an odd mixture of sympathy and satisfaction.

"Accio ring," he commanded smoothly.

"Draco—!" She shouted as the ring found its place back on his finger.

"You're nothing!" She screeched, red-faced. "I've _heard_ about your father— not just his imprisonment! The Malfoy name's not so grand now, is it? Your family is done— _you're_ done!"

He looked down at her, a disheveled heap on the floor, and felt nothing but remorse and repulsion— with himself.

_Why had he ever led her on?_ He wondered, then walked away silently, headed toward the library without another word.

Draco shook the memory from his mind as he idly flipped a page in the book spread out before him— he hadn't read a single word from the moment Hermione had appeared in the Great Hall.

At the Gryffindor table, Hermione spared Ron one look of disdain before turning back to Harry.

"Everyone knows you've been telling the truth now, don't they?"

_Like_ I've _known all along,_ Hermione thought.

"Look— you'll always be 'Harry' to me, but the whole Wizarding world has had to admit that you were right about Voldemort being back and that you really have fought him twice in the last two years and escaped both times. And now they're calling you 'the Chosen One'—well, come on, can't you see why people are fascinated by you?"

"And you've been through all that persecution from the Ministry when they were trying to make out you were unstable and a liar. You can still see the marks on the back of your hand where that evil woman made you write with your own blood, but you stuck to your story anyway…"

Hermione rather suspected she too would forever have a scar, and she absentmindedly touched her fingertips to the necklace's burn, beside her collarbone. The redness and swelling had subsided, the mark now only slightly raised and pink, but the 'M' shape was as defined as ever.

"You can still see where those brains got hold of me in the Ministry, look," said Ron, shaking back his sleeves.

"And it doesn't hurt that you've grown about a foot over the summer either," Hermione finished, ignoring Ron, and observing Harry _had_ grown into himself over the past year; his messy black hair as charming as ever, his green eyes piercing. There was no denying his attractiveness.

_So what?_ A voice in her mind answered. _Harry's not the only physically attractive boy in our year now…_

The image of Malfoy standing in dark green robes inside Madam Malkin's flashed across her mind. She shook her head and frowned; judging the attractiveness of the male student body should be the _least_ of her concerns.

"I'm tall," said Ron inconsequentially.

Still listening in at the Slytherin table, Draco coughed on a bite of his toast.

_Pathetic._

As repulsed as he was at the idea, it had always seemed like there was something more going on between Potter and Granger, now more than ever… but _Weasley_ and Granger? He scoffed at the thought. The idea was as ridiculous to him as the idea of he and Parkinson. Even _he_ knew that Granger, although Muggle-born, deserved better than Ron Weasley. _  
_

Just as Draco was about to take another bite of toast, the post arrived with a flurry of owls swooping down through rain-flecked windows, scattering everyone with droplets of water.

He didn't bother to look up; he knew there'd be no mail for him.

Knowing the Malfoy correspondence would be inspected on both ends, he and his mother had established a secret code prior to the start of term in order to disguise their true messages. He'd received only one letter this term; his mother had informed him she was all right, but had instructed him to write only if absolutely necessary, to use his efforts to focus solely on the task that had been given him… and to trust Severus Snape.

Hermione looked up hopefully, expecting a letter from Mr. Weasley or Bill, but the only thing that arrived for her was a copy of the _Daily Prophet_.

Noting her disappointment, Harry leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Don't worry, Hermione, Mr. Weasley's got to be working on it, I'm sure he and Bill are just really busy."

She smiled at him in thanks and then unfolded the _Prophet,_ scanning the front page.

"Anyone we know dead?" asked Ron in a determinedly casual voice; he posed the same question every time she opened her paper.

She too felt a sharp pang of fear each time she opened the _Prophet_ — if pureblood witches and wizards weren't safe, it seemed to be the only logical conclusion that Muggles and Muggle-borns were in even more grave danger. She thought of her parents each time she held the _Prophet_ in her hands, along with the dismal plan that was beginning to take shape in her mind— her plan to try to keep them safe.

"No, but there have been more dementor attacks," she explained. "And an arrest."

"Excellent, who?" said Harry, obviously hoping for the arrest of a Death Eater.

"Stan Shunpike," swallowing her surprise at reading the name.

"What?" said Harry, obviously startled.

She began to read aloud, _"'Stanley Shunpike, conductor on the popular Wizarding conveyance the Knight Bus, has been arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity. Mr. Shunpike, 21, was taken into custody late last night after a raid on his Clapham home...'"  
_

"Stan Shunpike, a Death Eater?" said Harry, outraged, "No way!"

"He might've been put under the Imperius Curse," said Ron reasonably.

"You never can tell."

_Unless the Imperius was performed improperly,_ Draco thought grimly as he continued to listen in. The date of the first Hogsmeade trip was approaching, and he knew he'd have to enact his plan soon. He'd never cast the Imperius before, and he could only hope his endeavor would be a successful one.

"It doesn't look like it," said Hermione, who was still reading. "It says here he was arrested after he was overheard talking about the Death Eaters' secret plans in a pub." Draco saw that when she looked up, her expression was troubled. "If he was under the Imperius Curse, he'd hardly stand around gossiping about their plans, would he?"

"It sounds like he was trying to make out he knew more than he did," said Ron. "Isn't he the one who claimed he was going to become Minister of Magic when he was trying to chat up those Veela?"

"Yeah, that's him," said Harry. "I dunno what they're playing at, taking Stan seriously."

"They probably want to look as though they're doing something," said Hermione, frowning. Her faith in the Ministry was contentious.

_Granger's right, of course,_ Draco thought.

He'd never had much faith in the Ministry, which had always seemed to him rather incompetent, ineffective, and wasteful as a whole. It was an opinion he knew he'd inherited from his father, but he now willingly took ownership of it.

_It's why it's been so bloody easy for Voldemort to infiltrate,_ Draco thought in irritation. He knew the Ministry was weaker than it'd ever been before; under Voldemort's lead, Death Eaters were taking over positions of power, and fast.

Draco mused with curiosity that it seemed Granger likewise was not a fan.

"People are terrified—you know the Patil twins' parents want them to go home? And Eloise Midgen has already been withdrawn. Her father picked her up last night."

"What!" said Ron, goggling at her. "But Hogwarts is safer than their homes, bound to be! We've got Aurors, and all those extra protective spells, and we've got Dumbledore!"

Harry had been keeping she and Ron updated after every journey he and Dumbledore made into the Pensieve— every new bit of information about Tom Riddle's past seeming worst than the last— but Hermione noted their Headmaster seemed more often absent than present.

"I don't think we've got him all the time," she said very quietly, glancing toward the staff table over the top of the _Prophet._ "Haven't you noticed? His seat's been empty as often as Hagrid's this past week."

Draco _had_ noticed, rather keenly.

_As if my job's not hard enough,_ he grimaced, wondering how he would ever be able to complete his task with Dumbledore gone from the castle most of the time.

As Harry and Ron looked up to the staff table, Hermione ventured a glance over at the Slytherin table only to find, much to her displeasure, that Malfoy was looking at her.

She glared at him, a glare which he returned with a scathing smile. She turned back to Harry and Ron and lowered her voice.

"I think he's left the school to do something with the Order. I mean... it's all looking serious, isn't it?"

Harry and Ron did not answer, but Hermione knew that they were all thinking the same thing. There had been a horrible incident the day before, when Hannah Abbott had been taken out of Herbology to be told her mother had been found dead. They had not seen Hannah since.

Draco's gaze returned to his book, but he wasn't reading. Although he could no longer hear what Granger, Potter, and Weasley were saying, by the dismal looks on their faces, he could tell they were talking about Hannah Abbott, whose mother had recently been killed. The complete details of her death were still largely a mystery… outside of Voldemort's followers.

Draco knew she'd been killed to instill fear and obedience. He'd realized Voldemort had been the one to do it, too— it certainly explained the sharp, searing pain— Voldemort's joy— he'd felt in his Mark recently, likely when the Dark Mark had been cast into the sky in victory.

The name Abbott was an old, respected one, with a long pureblood lineage, and it was equally no secret amongst the Death Eaters that Hannah's mother had refused all efforts to join them. Voldemort's message was clear; no one is safe. Follow me or die.

_Unless you're Muggle-born,_ Draco thought gravely, glancing again at Hermione, _then your only option is death._ He considered Hermione probably knew of these dangers more than most, and he idly wondered what she'd try to do to keep her parents safe.

_It won't be enough,_ Draco thought darkly, knowing too well the strength of Voldemort's will.

_Why do you care?_ It was as if Theo were there beside him, asking this question.

_I don't,_ Draco told himself weakly, his eyes following Hermione as she left the Great Hall with Harry and Ron. _I could care less._

_/_

A/N: Thank you for reading! Reviews are greatly appreciated.


	14. Tryouts, Hagrid, and Protective Gloves

/

As they headed down to the Quidditch pitch for trials, Hermione could sense Ron's anxiety, and, by the parlor of Ron's skin and the rigidity of his lanky frame, she was quite certain any regular passerby certainly would too.

"You're going to do fine, Ron," she said encouragingly as they passed Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. She was unsurprised to see that the two best friends were whispering together, looking distressed. What surprised her even less was that when Ron drew level with them, Parvati suddenly nudged Lavender, who looked around and gave Ron a wide smile.

Hermione had heard them whispering about Ron on more than one occasion, when they thought she couldn't hear… but she _had_ heard.

Apparently, Lavender had a bit of a _thing_ for Ron.

Hermione grimaced at the thought. She would've been happy for Ron if she actually _liked_ Lavender, but her roommate of six years had made her life rather unpleasant on more than a few occasions.

She greatly preferred Ginny and Luna's company over Lavender's and Parvati's; there was no comparison, really. But Hermione admitted that perhaps the attention would bolster Ron's confidence for tryouts.

Ron blinked at Lavender for a moment, then, perhaps realizing he quite liked the attention, he returned the smile uncertainly and his walk instantly became something more like a strut. Harry nudged Hermione's ribs gently, and she could see he too was resisting the temptation to laugh.

"I think Lavender likes you, Ron," she said encouragingly, forcing herself not to mock Ron's sudden change in stride as they made their way toward the stadium through the cool, misty drizzle.

"Really?" Ron asked uncertainly, although his posture remained proud.

"Mhmm," Hermione smiled mischievously, and she spied Harry's amused grin.

"What d'you reckon I should do, Hermione?" Ron's eyes grew wide.

"I _reckon_ you should give it your best out there, er— you know… show her how good of a Keeper you are."

"Right," Ron nodded, suddenly looking altogether determined. He strode off toward the pitch.

"Hermione, that was brilliant," Harry grinned broadly and hugged her.

She laughed into his chest, "We'll see— more importantly, good luck today, Harry."

They parted, and she noted Harry's expression was laced with uncertainty. She knew he still doubted his ability to lead, even now, even after the DA. It was something she knew she would probably always need to remind him.

_Otherwise, what kind of friend would I be?_

She smiled encouragingly, "I don't know much about Quidditch, but I know _you_ , and Captain suits you, I think. Now come on, you're going to be late."

Hermione found a place in the stands, and saw that half of Gryffindor House seemed to have turned up, from first years who were nervously clutching a selection of the dreadful old school brooms, to seventh years who towered over the rest, looking coolly intimidating. The latter included a large, wiry-haired boy named Cormac McLaggen, who Hermione remembered Harry had mentioned had been invited to Slughorn's compartment on the train.

Apparently, he was also trying out for Keeper. She watched him approach Harry as if they were old friends, but they exchanged only a few words before Harry directed him to the edge of the pitch to wait. To her dismay, he seemed to rather purposely find a spot very near her proximity.

"Don't worry, Hermione— just giving Harry a bit of advice for his first day as Captain. Did you know my father was captain of the Gryffindor team for four years when he was at school?"

"Oh, really?" Hermione replied disinterestedly, avoiding eye contact.

"Beater, he was— but how could he not be— built like me—" McLaggen gestured emphatically to his chest and Hermione felt as though she might vomit. "But so are all the McLaggen men— he holds the record for the most knock-outs… nearly took out half the Hufflepuff team during one match…"

To Hermione's rapidly growing displeasure, McLaggen continued in this way for two whole hours, during which time there were many complaints and several tantrums— one involving a crashed Comet Two Sixty and several broken teeth— as Harry found himself three Chasers: Katie Bell, returned to the team after an excellent trial; Demelza Robins, who was particularly good at dodging Bludgers; and Ginny, who had outflown all the competition and scored seventeen goals to boot. Hermione had done her best between McLaggen's unyielding boasts to cheer her on from the stands. Two younger students, Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote, were chosen as Beaters.

Hermione could not enjoy her pride in Harry's leadership, nor Ginny's Chaser skills, however, as McLaggen's snide remarks about the students trying out continued unabated. To make matters worse, he'd made no effort to hide that he was directing his comments _her_ way, as if trying to impress her.

"Your boyfriend's got it all wrong," said McLaggen, referring to Harry's choices.

"Harry's my friend," Hermione mumbled.

Just _your friend?_ An unwanted question whispered inside her head.

To her dismay, McLaggen's eyebrow arched in interest, and when he spoke again, his voice had somehow deepened. "Well that's certainly good news. If _I'd_ made it to tryouts last year, I would've been made captain this year for sure," he continued, with something of a swagger. "But I was in the hospital wing… ate a pound of Doxy eggs for a bet."

It took every ounce of her patience not to hex him with a non-verbal spell; it was clear to her that McLaggen was a special breed of arsehole.

_I won't ruin Harry's first day as captain, I won't ruin Harry's first day as captain,_ Hermione said to herself again and again, her fist clenched around her wand.

She was beyond thankful when the time for the Keeper tryouts had come, and McLaggen at last left her side, winking at her before strutting off toward the pitch.

_I'd take Malfoy over McLaggen any day,_ she thought grimly.

She knew Harry had deliberately left the trial of the Keepers until last, hoping for an emptier stadium and less pressure on all concerned. Unfortunately, however, all the rejected players and a number of people who had come down to watch after a lengthy breakfast had joined the crowd by now, including Luna, who was proudly sporting her enormous lion hat and a 'Weasley is Our King' pin on her oversized orange jacket. Hermione smiled and waved in her direction, a gesture which Luna merrily returned.

To her irritation, Hermione also spotted Nott, his face half-hidden behind his Runes textbook.

Theo too had endured about half an hour of McLaggen's dribble, and he'd watched with growing amusement as Granger fought to hide her annoyance. He could practically feel the waves of irritation emanating from her.

_Wish she'd trap_ him _in a jar and drop it somewhere in the Forbidden Forest,_ Theo thought, recalling how obnoxious the Gryffindor had been during Slughorn's little meeting on the train. _Pompous git._

Hermione directed her attention to the pitch. As each Keeper flew up to the goal hoops, the crowd roared and jeered in equal measure. Hermione glanced worriedly over at Ron, who had always had a problem with nerves.

She hoped that the news about Lavender might have boosted his confidence a bit, but apparently not: Ron was a delicate shade of green.

"Is Weasley going to make it?" Nott ask Hermione as he took a seat in the row behind her. "Or should I run and tell Pomfrey to get a bed ready for him?"

Hermione rolled her eyes; it seemed she could not catch a break today. "No, but if you bother me you better hope she's got a bed made up for you, Nott."

"McLaggen's got you all worked up, I see. When's the wedding?"

"It takes more than his particular kind of idiot to get me worked up… and I'd rather eat a pound of Doxy eggs," the words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them.

_Maybe I_ am _worked up,_ she admitted with irritation.

Theo actually laughed out loud, her comment reminding him of something Draco might say.

"Funny— my dear friend Draco seems to have no problem getting under your skin."

_If only you knew,_ Hermione thought of her scar and fought the urge to bring her hand to the platinum necklace.

"Speaking of Malfoy— did he send you to scope tryouts for him? Afraid of the competition this year?"

"First of all, Draco doesn't _send_ me anywhere— I know you might think that, with Potter always getting you to do his bidding for him," Theo said, and Hermione could tell she had struck a nerve despite his cool comeback. "Secondly— well, never you mind your little Gryffindor head about that."

In truth, Theo had no idea exactly where Draco had gotten off to today; despite his best efforts, and his interrogation of Goyle, he hadn't been able to find his friend. Theo was frustrated by this hidden knowledge, and had nearly just blurted to Hermione that Draco in fact had very _little_ interest in Quidditch this year, too consumed by his task— whatever it happened to be— so much so that he planned to abdicate his Seeker position.

Hermione and Theo turned their attention back to tryouts.

None of the first five applicants saved more than two goals apiece. To Hermione's great disappointment, McLaggen saved four penalties out of five.

_No,_ she thought, her mind racing frantically in desperation. She knew Harry would choose the Keeper who blocked the most goals. _That absolute troll_ can't _win. Plus, he'll drive Harry crazy… and poor Ron._

She reached again for her wand.

The last penalty soared toward McLaggen, and seeing he was positioned to block it perfectly, she focused all her efforts on the non-verbal spell.

_Confundus!_ Her mind roared.

The action, although silent, did not go unnoticed by Theo, and he looked up just in time to see McLaggen's last penalty shoot off in completely the wrong direction.

The crowd laughed and booed and McLaggen returned to the ground in clear outrage.

Theo thought back to what Slughorn had said the day the plans for Felix had been initiated; _'"Miss Granger, you are full of surprises,"'_ and _"'there's some Slytherin in you."'_

_Maybe the oaf was right,_ Theo considered, glancing at Hermione appraisingly.

He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "Nice Confundus."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said evenly, without turning around.

Theo smirked, impressed.

He certainly didn't condone cheating, but he couldn't deny something had to be done about McLaggen… Theo thought it was the least the prat deserved after the hours of his slimy commentary. Theo also reasoned it'd be absolutely psychotic to let him anywhere near a Quidditch pitch… only a madman would eat a pound for Doxy eggs, they were well-known to be poisonous. In that moment, he could not deny a tentative sort of respect for Granger began to blossom.

Clearly, there was a lot more to her than he and Draco had ever suspected. In fact, Theo couldn't help but again notice how Draco would've probably done the same thing to McLaggen, if given the chance.

"Good luck, Ron!" Cried Lavender, a few rows over from Hermione as Ron mounted his broom for his trial.

Luna's hat gave a loud roar.

"Wonder if Brown's got any non-verbal spells up _her_ sleeve?" Nott muttered sarcastically and Hermione smirked reluctantly.

But no more interference was needed as Ron preceded to save one, two, three, four, and five penalties in a row.

Hermione cheered along with the crowd, and when Ron's trial was over, she watched uneasily as McLaggen, red in the face, rapidly approached Harry.

"Maybe we should get Pomfrey to get a bed ready for Potter," Nott whispered to her as he rose to leave. "Don't forget it's your turn to check on Felix tonight."

Hermione waved him away, rising from her seat, seeing McLaggen's offensive stance. She gripped her wand tightly, just in case.

"His sister didn't really try!" she heard McLaggen shout menacingly. "She gave him an easy save."

"Rubbish," said Harry coldly. "That was the one he nearly missed."

McLaggen took a step nearer Harry, who stood his ground. Hermione smiled in satisfaction; McLaggen was no match for Harry, not where dueling was concerned.

_A physical fight, however…_ Hermione considered worriedly, her smile disappearing.

"Give me another go," McLaggen insisted.

"No," said Harry. "You've had your go. You saved four. Ron saved five. Ron's Keeper, he won it fair and square. Get out of my way."

Hermione thought for a moment that McLaggen might punch Harry, but he contented himself with an ugly grimace and stormed away, growling what sounded like threats to thin air. Harry turned to congratulate his team.

Hermione ran toward them from the stands, grinning broadly.

"Well done, captain," she nudged Harry playfully in the side, and she saw his annoyance from McLaggen disappear as his green eyes brightened.

"Thanks, Hermione."

"You did it, Ron!"

After a quick celebration and fixing the time of their first full practice for the following Thursday, she headed off toward Hagrid's with Harry and Ron. A watery sun was trying to break through the clouds now.

"I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty," Ron said happily. "Tricky shot from Demelza, did you see, had a bit of spin on it—"

"Yes, yes, you were magnificent," said Hermione dismissively.

"I was better than McLaggen anyway," said Ron in a highly satisfied voice. "Did you see him lumbering off in the wrong direction on his fifth? Looked like he'd been Confunded..."

Hermione blushed deeply, her guilt settling in. She hoped Harry didn't notice, but highly doubted it. It gave her a small comfort to know Ron would likely notice nothing; he was too busy describing each of his penalties in loving detail, and wondering aloud what Lavender and Luna thought.

_McLaggen deserved it though,_ she argued with herself. _He was a complete git. Ron's a better fit for the team anyway… plus, he saved all five goals without anyone's help._

As they approached Hagrid's she saw Buckbeak right away, tethered in front of the cabin. He clicked his razor-sharp beak at their approach and turned his huge head toward them. Her heart ached at the sight of the great creature, struck by the sadness of Sirius' loss; she remembered when she and Harry had ridden the hippogriff together.

She and Harry took turns bowing to Buckbeak without breaking eye contact. Each time, the regal hippogriff reciprocated the bow.

"How are you?" Hermione heard Harry ask him in a low voice, moving forward to stroke his feathery head.

"Missing him I'm sure," she answered quietly, "But you're okay here with Hagrid, aren't you?" Buckbeak nuzzled his head into her hand, nearly knocking her backward, clearly enjoying the attention. Harry put his arm out to brace her, and she smiled, unaware of the deeply appreciative gaze Harry directed her way.

"Oi!" said a loud voice.

Hagrid came striding around the corner of his cabin wearing a large flowery apron and carrying a sack of potatoes, Fang at his heels. The enormous dog gave a booming bark and bounded forward.

"Git away from him! He'll have yer fingers—oh. It's yeh lot."

Fang jumped up at Ron, attempting to lick his ears. Hagrid stood and looked at them all for a split second, then turned and strode into his cabin, slamming the door behind him.

"Oh no!" said Hermione. It was as she had feared— Hagrid was angry with them.

"Don't worry about it," said Harry grimly. He walked over to the door and knocked loudly.

"Hagrid! Open up, we want to talk to you!"

There was no sound from within.

"If you don't open the door, we'll blast it open!" Harry said, pulling out his wand.

"Harry!" she protested. "You can't possibly —"

"Yeah, I can!" said Harry, shooting her a significant look. She understood instantly, and couldn't help but smirk. "Stand back—"

But before he could say anything else, the door flew open again as Harry had obviously known it would, and there stood Hagrid, glowering down at them all and looking, despite the flowery apron, positively alarming.

"I'm a teacher!" he roared at Harry. "A teacher, Potter! How dare yeh threaten ter break down my door!"

"I'm sorry, _sir,_ " said Harry, emphasizing the last word as he stowed his wand inside his robes.

Hagrid looked stunned. "Since when have yeh called me 'sir'?"

"Since when have you called me 'Potter'?"

"Oh, very clever," growled Hagrid. "Very amusin'. That's me outsmarted, innit? All righ', come in then, yeh ungrateful little..."

They apologized almost immediately for not taking his class that year, and Hermione made sure to let the half-giant know just how much she'd missed him. Thankfully, it didn't take long for them to break through Hagrid's defenses.

With Hagrid's disposition softened, he told them about Aragog, who, by the sound of it, wasn't long for this world. By the time Hagrid's door closed behind them and they stepped into the cool night air, all was mended, much to Hermione's relief.

"I've got that detention with Snape tonight, so I haven't got much time for dinner," Harry explained despondently as they hurried their way across the deserted grounds.

As they came into the castle, Hermione spotted McLaggen entering the Great Hall. It took him two attempts to get through the doors; he ricocheted off the frame on the first attempt. Ron merely guffawed gloatingly and strode off into the Hall after him, but Harry caught her arm and held her back.

_He knows._

"Yes, Harry?" she asked sweetly.

"If you ask me," said Harry quietly, "McLaggen looks like he was Confunded this morning. And he was standing by where you were sitting all during tryouts."

Hermione blushed and they stared at one another in knowing silence.

"Oh, all right then, I did it," she whispered. "But you should have heard the way he was talking about you— and Ron and Ginny too. He's a complete—"

"Arse?" Harry smirked and she nodded.

"Anyway, he's got a nasty temper, you saw how he reacted when he didn't get in— plus he thought he knew _everything_ — you wouldn't have wanted someone like that on the team."

"No," said Harry. "No, I suppose that's true. But wasn't that dishonest, Hermione? I mean, you're a prefect, aren't you?"

"Oh, be quiet," she hit his arm in jest as he smirked.

"What're you two doing?" demanded Ron, reappearing in the doorway to the Great Hall and looking suspicious.

"Nothing," she and Harry said together, and they hurried after Ron.

They had barely taken three steps toward the Gryffindor table when Professor Slughorn appeared in front of them, blocking their path.

"Harry, Harry, just the man I was hoping to see! And Miss Granger, too, what a treat! Although you two never seem to stray too far from each other, I've noticed…" He boomed genially, and meaningfully, twiddling the ends of his walrus mustache and puffing out his enormous belly.

"I was hoping to catch you before dinner! What do you say to a spot of supper later tonight in my rooms instead? We're having a little party, just a few rising stars, I've got McLaggen coming and the charming Melinda Bobbin— I don't know whether you know her? Her family owns a large chain of apothecaries— and, of course, I hope very much that Miss Granger will favor me by coming too."

Slughorn made Hermione a little bow as he finished speaking. It was as though Ron was not present; Slughorn did not so much as look at him.

"I can't come, Professor," said Harry at once, "I've got a detention with Professor Snape."

Hermione suddenly felt immeasurably disappointed. Not only would she now have to go to the party without Harry, she'd yet again be forced to endure McLaggen's horrifying presence, and his unwanted attention.

"Oh dear!" said Slughorn, his face falling comically. "Dear, dear, I was counting on you, Harry! Well, now, I'll just have to have a word with Severus and explain the situation. I'm sure I'll be able to persuade him to postpone your detention. Yes, I'll see you both later!"

He bustled away out of the Hall.

"He's got no chance of persuading Snape," said Harry, the moment Slughorn was out of earshot. "This detention's already been postponed once; Snape did it for Dumbledore, but he won't do it for anyone else."

"Oh, I wish you could come, Harry!"

_I don't think I'll be able to hold back a hex on my own this time,_ she considered, thinking again of McLaggen.

"I doubt you'll be alone, Ginny'll probably be invited," snapped Ron, who did not seem to have taken kindly to being ignored by Slughorn. Ginny had also been one of the students invited to Slughorn's little gathering on the train.

After dinner, they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower. They managed to find a free table and sat down; Ron, who had been in a bad mood ever since the encounter with Slughorn, folded his arms and frowned at the ceiling.

Hermione ignored him and reached out for a copy of the _Evening Prophet_ , which somebody had left abandoned on a chair.

"Anything new?" Harry asked her.

"Not really..." she scanned the inside pages. "Oh, look, your dad's in here, Ron— he's all right!" she added quickly as Ron looked around in alarm.

"It just says he's searched Malfoy Manor again."

_What a house to grow up in,_ Hermione thought, imagining what manner of objects could possibly be housed within. She wondered how a house like that could ever feel like a home.

She read the article aloud, "'This second search of the Death Eater's residence does not seem to have yielded any results. Arthur Weasley of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects said that his team had been acting upon a confidential tip-off…' Well, it sounds like your dad took our concerns to heart."

"So if it's not at their house, Malfoy must have brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him—" Harry reasoned aloud, his brow furrowed.

"Maybe," Hermione said skeptically.

"But how can he have done?" Asked Ron seriously. "We were all searched when we arrived, weren't we?"

_I'm still walking around with this horrid necklace,_ Hermione thought.

"Were you?" Said Harry, taken aback. He looked to Hermione for affirmation, but she gave him only a look of confusion.

"We weren't," she explained to Ron.

"Course you two weren't, I forgot you were late. Well, Filch ran over all of our things with Secrecy Sensors right when we got off the train, and again when we got into the entrance hall. Any Dark object would have been found— Crabbe had a shrunken head confiscated. So even though Malfoy was with you lot, I don't think he could've brought in anything dangerous… unless it was _on_ him, I s'pose."

Momentarily stymied, Harry and Hermione's gaze met. She saw Harry glance at the necklace resting by her collar.

"Maybe. But Hermione got into school with her necklace, didn't she? Maybe Malfoy _did_ have something on him that night."

Hermione frowned at Harry's phrasing. _It's not_ my _necklace…_

"We don't really know for sure if the necklace is even technically a dark object though," she rationalized. "Plus, didn't Malfoy have concerns about carrying the object out of Borgin's? He said he would look strange holding it— maybe it's too large to carry."

"Or—" Harry said, "maybe someone's sent it to him by owl. His mother or someone."

"Well… I _do_ know all the owls are being checked," said Hermione.

"Can you think of any other way Malfoy—?"

"Oh, drop it, you two," Ron snapped, and Hermione looked to him in surprise.

"Listen, it's not my fault Slughorn invited Hermione and me to his stupid party, neither of us wanted to go, you know!" said Harry, firing up.

Hermione winced. She hated when they argued.

"Well, as I'm not invited to any parties," said Ron, getting to his feet again, "I think I'll go to bed."

He stomped off toward the door to the boys' dormitories, leaving Harry and Hermione staring after him, shaking their heads.

Hermione figured she should probably head up to her dorm to get ready for Slughorn's supper— she'd have just enough time to check on Felix on her way.

"Harry?" said the new Chaser, Demelza Robins, appearing suddenly at his shoulder. "I've got a message for you."

"From Professor Slughorn?" Hermione asked, tentatively hopeful that perhaps Snape had agreed to reschedule Harry's detention.

_He's got a better chance at teaching a Pygmy Puff to waltz,_ Hermione thought, knowing her hope was naive.

"No... from Professor Snape," said Demelza. "He says you're to come to his office at half past eight tonight to do your detention —er—no matter how many party invitations you've received. And he wanted you to know you'll be sorting out rotten flobberworms from good ones, to use in Potions and—and he says there's no need to bring protective gloves."

"Right," said Harry grimly. "Thanks a lot, Demelza."

"That sounds preferable to this dinner, Harry, honestly. McLaggen? And what if Malfoy and Nott are there too?"

"Wear your protective gloves," Harry replied.

/

/

A/N: This chapter contains a lot of original text from HBP, I hope you enjoyed this spin on it. Thank you for reading!


	15. M

/

As Slughorn droned on and on (and on) to Melinda Bobbin about her family's chain of apothecaries, Draco was rapidly regretting his decision to come to Slughorn's supper.

_At least he doesn't seem all that interested in McLaggen at the moment,_ Draco thought, prepared to hex the smarmy Gryffindor git into next week should he mention his bloody uncle one more time.

His patience was thinner than usual, and for Draco, that meant it had all but disappeared.

He had spent all day up on the seventh floor in the Room of Hidden Things— a Polyjuiced Crabbe outside keeping watch— researching the books he'd borrowed from the library, and failing minute by minute and hour by hour to repair the Vanishing Cabinet.

Exasperated at his lack of progress and enraged by the news that the Manor had again been searched by the Ministry, he'd abandoned a Polyjuiced, freshly memory-wiped Crabbe and headed to dinner, only to run into Slughorn and Theo talking outside the Great Hall. Slughorn had beckoned him over, inviting them both to supper.

In truth, Draco wanted nothing more than to make some excuse to avoid the gathering, but he couldn't help but shake the feeling it couldn't hurt to stay in Slughorn's good graces. The man had connections, after all, and if he had learned anything useful from his father, it was that with connections, however vile the person, came resources, influence, and power.

Just as Draco was expecting Slughorn to summon the meal, the door to his rooms— a makeshift dining room tonight— creaked open, and he looked up in surprise to find Hermione entering the room.

Draco immediately noticed she'd put more care than usual into her appearance; she wore a casual, but fitted black dress under an unbuttoned cardigan, and her hair was swept back and carefully secured. It was clear she'd been in a hurry, as her cheeks were slightly flushed and a few wavy tendrils of her warm brown hair had come loose, framing her face. Draco admitted the effect was not altogether displeasing.

_Or maybe it's the wine,_ he thought, taking another sip of said beverage.

_At least I can hold my alcohol enough not to make a show,_ Draco thought, noting Slughorn's glass had already been emptied and refilled a number of times, the professor's cheeks burning redder and the readiness of his laughter increasing by the minute. Draco idly wondered what McGonagall— or Snape, better yet— would say if they learned Slughorn was serving wine to students.

"Miss Granger, welcome!" Slughorn boomed.

Across the table, Draco saw McLaggen eyeing Hermione as if she were a bit of perfectly cooked roast beef. Theo had told him about McLaggen's little infatuation with Granger at the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts. Draco clenched his jaw in irritation, and rather felt like punching the prat in the middle of his stupid face.

_Or maybe it's_ not _the wine,_ a voice that sounded rather like Theo's replied in his head.

"I'm so sorry I'm late professor—"

"Nonsense, nonsense! I know you've been tending to some very— _delicate_ — matters," Slughorn said jovially, winking at Hermione and tapping his nose as he glanced pointedly at Theo.

Draco shot his friend a pointed look. _What was that about?_ He wondered.

To Draco's growing annoyance, Theo simply pretended not to notice.

"It seems I should be the one apologizing, apparently I've overbooked this dinner!"

Draco looked away and noted every seat at the round table was already taken.

"Here— Gra- er, Hermione," her name sounded odd coming from Theo's mouth, "take my seat." His friend stood to offer up his seat. Draco glared at him.

_Why does it always feel like he's up to something?_ He wondered.

_Because he_ is _always up to something,_ his mind answered as if he'd just read this obvious fact from his History of Magic textbook.

Hermione opened her mouth as if to protest, but Theo was already standing behind his chair, expectantly waiting for her to take the offered seat.

"Thank you," she mumbled, clearly uncomfortable at the attention. Theo slid the chair in behind her as she sat. The table was too small for the number of occupants already seated, so as Hermione sat down, Draco felt her arm brush against his. He didn't move away from the contact.

"And they say chivalry is dead! Very good of you Theo, indeed."

Draco scoffed internally. Theo had many qualities, but chivalry certainly was not one of them.

Nott nodded in acknowledgement, then strode across the room for another chair. He returned to the table a moment later, chair in hand. To Draco's annoyance, he took a spot on Granger's other side.

"Shame Harry was otherwise engaged, but there's always next time, no Miss Granger?"

"He's very sorry he couldn't make it, professor—"

_Like hell he is._ Draco was also a bit sorry Potter couldn't make it; he'd pay ten galleons to witness his reaction to seeing Granger nestled between him and Theo. He smirked.

"Apology gladly accepted. Right, then— famished everyone?" Slughorn waved his wand, and their supper appeared before them, plentiful and steaming. "Dig in, enjoy! I intend to do so."

_Obviously,_ Draco thought, noting Slughorn's immense stomach prevented him from sitting very near the table.

Slughorn returned his attention to Bobbin and Greengrass, who flanked his left and right, while McLaggen dug in as though he'd never seen a hot meal before.

"So… Confund anyone today Granger?" He whispered, his lopsided smirk growing as he took another sip of wine.

To his pleasure, he felt her shift in alarm beside him.

Theo had been quick to recount what he'd seen at Gryffindor's Quidditch tryouts, highlighting Granger's _special_ influence, not that Draco particularly cared about the team. There was no doubt he _would_ miss playing Quidditch this year— part of him wished for the days when the next match was his biggest concern— but he just didn't have the capacity to _care_ about the competition this year, not when he was otherwise engaged with trying to avoid certain death.

_Rather puts things into perspective,_ he thought dryly, idly wondering if this was how Potter felt every year.

In truth, he was more disappointed that he hadn't witnessed Granger use a Confundus on McLaggen— the prat certainly deserved it, and worse. He'd be happy to see it again, in fact, right here in the middle of Slughorn's supper would be more than all right with him.

"I have no idea—" she began, without turning her head to look at him.

"—right," he interrupted, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "And Potter's really just _so_ upset he can't be here."

"Just like you're _so_ upset you couldn't make it to the pitch today? Had to send Nott to do your dirty work?"

"You'd know a lot about dirty work, following Potter's every whim all these years. Theo went on his own accord. I could care less about—"

"You're talking an awful lot about Harry. It seems to me you _do_ care."

"I'm not even playing this year—" the words tumbled from his lips before he could stop himself.

He ventured a glance in her direction, and their eyes met. Her gaze was warm and bright with surprise in the glow of the room's candlelight. They were sitting so close, he could see every golden fleck in her irises, reflected back at him. He looked down and saw the necklace against the smooth skin of her throat, and near her collarbone, the outline of something pink— like a new scar…

"Miss Granger, that necklace can't be goblin-made platinum I see Draco admiring, can it? But it must be— I know it when I see it! It always has such a special glow— charming. I won't even mention it's value! I hope you don't mind me pointing it out, but I can't possibly ignore an object so rare."

Draco saw Hermione blush as all eyes turned to her.

"Oh, yes, er— thank you professor."

"Usually such objects are precious family heirlooms, I wonder how yours came into your possession?"

It was true, Draco knew, pureblood families revered goblin-forged precious metals like their lineage depended on it; the objects, like the ring on his finger, passed carefully from generation to generation through the centuries.

But Draco felt suddenly incensed for Granger. Slughorn knew she was Muggle-born, and it was almost as if the professor was accusing her of stealing the necklace from someone more worthy.

_Who does Slughorn think he is, Salazar Slytherin?_

Draco recognized it was a comment he might've made himself not all that long ago, but it now struck him as rather uncouth.

_Hypocrite,_ a voice that sounded annoyingly like Theo's whispered in his head.

"Oh, um, it was a gift," she replied dutifully, and Draco swore he could feel Hermione's heat— her embarrassment, or more likely her anger— radiate toward him. Clearly Slughorn's implications had not been lost on her either.

He swallowed hard and busied himself with his supper, feigning disinterest.

"A gift! Oho, what do you think of that, Mister Malfoy? I see a platinum most similar on your finger there."

Beside Hermione, Draco heard Theo sputter on his drink.

_I don't know who I'm going to kill first: Theo or Slughorn,_ Draco thought, legitimately considering his options.

"Easy there, Mister Nott! Don't tell me I've stumbled upon some sensitive information?" Slughorn grinned deviously and looked to Draco, then Hermione, then back again. "Oh, my—"

_Definitely Slughorn. Like I would ever sincerely buy a gift like that for someone like Granger._

_But you_ did _buy that for Granger,_ his mind argued.

Luckily, Bobbin, Greengrass, and McLaggen combined seemed to share the mental acuity of less than one Weasley family member; Draco saw McLaggen was open-mouthed, a bit of potato escaping from his lips to his plate, all the while winking at Granger; Greengrass was more interested in inspecting her own jewelry, as if offended Slughorn hadn't mentioned the worth of _her_ valuables; and Bobbin appeared altogether miserable, anxiously glancing at the door every few seconds.

"So, Professor, this is quite a fine elf-made wine we're drinking," Theo interjected coyly. "The cellar at Greystoke Castle spans the length of the estate, you know, but I don't think I've ever seen this one before."

Draco knew this was a lie; at least the part where Theo had said he'd never seen the wine before. The cellars at Greystoke Castle were vast, and he and Theo had certainly explored every crevice. He was relieved at the change in subject, however.

"Cellar, you say?" Slughorn's eyes lit up as he addressed Theo, as if Draco and Hermione no longer existed. "How fine, indeed! Albus— er, Dumbledore, goes on and on about mead, but I must admit I much prefer a fine aged grape…"

Slughorn's voice faded from Draco's consciousness as he focused his attention on Hermione, who'd gone still and silent beside him. She'd barely touched her meal, but he could see her chest rapidly rising and falling as she no doubt struggled to control her emotions.

"It burned me, you know," she whispered softly, and he felt as though the room were suddenly very hot.

She shifted in her seat slightly, as if to see him better, but her eyes never moved from her plate. He felt her knee brush against his leg.

He bit his lip as his eyes traveled again to the platinum necklace, then across her chest to her collarbone. In the soft light of the room, he could not help but notice her skin was smooth and luminous, save for the slightly raised mark he'd noticed earlier. If he'd been any further away, the mark would be mostly invisible, but because he was sitting so near her, he could see she had attempted to conceal it somehow; a scar, just below her delicate collarbone— in the shape of the letter 'M.'

The sight of it gave him pause— this was neither a random 'M' nor a strange wound that had just-so-happened to slightly resemble the letter. No, this 'M' was _his;_ it looked at if his own hand had started signing his surname and just stopped after the first letter.

Maybe it was the wine, his day of failure, his fear for his mother, his exhaustion, or maybe it was nothing more than being in the same room as McLaggen for more than half an hour, but Draco felt an undeniable pang of guilt at the sight of Hermione's scar.

When he'd clasped it around her neck, he knew he'd be the only one able to remove the necklace without de-activating the charm first, but he never imagined it would _burn_ her.

The irony that she'd been marked, against her will, like him, and that _he'd_ been the one to do it, was not lost on him.

_Should've known better, buying from Borgin's,_ a voice in Draco's head reasoned. But he hadn't really cared then.

_And you care now?_ His mind asked.

"Every time someone else tries to remove it…" She whispered, and Draco clenched his fist, suddenly irrationally angry at the image of Potter trying to remove the necklace.

It wasn't like he really cared now, either. Did he? He certainly wasn't going to suddenly relent and remove it for her.

"Not my problem," he whispered, feigning disinterest. She scowled and turned to face the table, leaving him feeling rather cold.

"No, I suppose you have too many of your own problems to deal with right now," she whispered icily, her gaze traveling to his left forearm.

"Pudding everyone?" Slughorn asked rhetorically and he clasped his hands together in delight.

/

/

"What're you playing at, Nott?" Draco asked icily as they made their way back to the Slytherin dungeons after Slughorn had drunkenly bid them goodnight.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but if I did, I'd tell you that you're not the only one with secrets, _Malfoy._ Unless, of course, you're ready to share?"

Draco sighed in exasperation.

"Since when do you fraternize with Gryffindors?"

Theo abruptly stopped just outside of the Slytherin Common Room, his expression firm.

"You want to know something?"

Draco turned to face Theo, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Do I have a choice?"

"I don't think you would bat a bloody eye about what I was up to if you didn't think it had anything to do with _Granger._ "

Draco regarded his friend through narrowed eyes.

"I don't know what the hell you're getting at."

"Of course you don't, which is even more concerning," Theo replied without missing a beat.

"So enlighten me, oh wise one."

"Tell me what you were up to all day, and I'd be glad to."

"Goodnight Theo," Draco said with finality as he tapped a pattern on the stone wall outside the Slytherin Common Room and it dematerialized to let him through.

/

/

A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this one, I hope you enjoyed reading it. Thanks as always for reading. Reviews are appreciated!


	16. Healing

/

A few days after Slughorn's supper, Draco collapsed into his four-poster bed, absolutely exhausted. Luckily, everyone was asleep, even Theo.

His entire body ached from the stress of his mission, but even more so from the after-effects of every bone in his body shifting to that of another's, then back again, all within a few hours.

The taste had been rotten enough, and he hoped he never had to use Polyjuice Potion ever again.

_Guess Crabbe and Goyle's complaints are a bit valid,_ he shrugged.

Under the cover of night, Draco had made his way to Hogsmeade through one of Hogwarts' secret passages, the one in the dungeons behind an enormous ebony urn. He'd been unsure if the passage would be protected by the extra wards around the castle, so he'd been pleasantly surprised to find this particular passage undisturbed. Draco's solo trip certainly hadn't been sanctioned by any professor, and he'd chosen Tuesday evening in particular with the hope that the Three Broomsticks wasn't too busy.

Luck had been on his side; he'd evaded the attention of the Aurors posted in Hogsmeade, and the bar had been all but empty save for one mangy-looking wizard and the barmaid, Madam Rosmerta.

He remembered the way his heart hammered in his chest as he'd finally worked up the nerve to cast the Imperius. He'd never done it before, and feared it would fail; as he'd learned from a young age, you had to mean dark spells for them to have any actual power. As he'd cast the spell, it felt as though a bit of himself had been removed, leaving him a bit hollow. It was to his great surprise, and immense relief, his Imperius had succeeded. Rosmerta was now under his control, and none the wiser.

He could call this part of his plan a success; but it brought him little relief.

There was much to be done.

One of the coins he'd enchanted was warm in his hand (he'd given another to Rosmerta), and he amused himself by imagining what Granger's reaction might be if she ever discovered how her idea of Protean-enchanted coins were now being used. He wondered how she'd come up with the idea last year when she used it for Dumbledore's Army— the coins reminded him of the Dark Mark; more discreet, certainly less painful, but just as useful and powerful.

There was some sort of joke there, or deep irony— the other side of the same coin— but Draco was too tired to sort it out.

Unconsciously, he slipped the coin into his pocket and removed his ring from his finger. In a sliver of the pale light of pre-dawn seeping its way through the curtains of his four-poster, Draco could see _'Gryffindor dorm'_ inscribed inside the curved metal. He idly wondered what Granger's dorm looked like, all red and gold; he pictured her sleeping soundly, the pale morning light just beginning to illuminate her features, and felt himself begin to drift asleep.

He shook himself awake.

Tomorrow, he needed to find a way to get Saturday detention. The first trip to Hogsmeade was rapidly approaching, and with Potter, Snape, and Theo sniffing out his every move, he couldn't afford to be anywhere near Rosmerta, nor the parcel he'd "advised" her to pick up from the Hogsmeade owlry— the one Greyback and Borgin owled— then deliver.

Draco knew it'd be _easier_ to rely on some other alibi— Theo perhaps, or Madam Pince in the library— but it would not be the _wisest_ choice; he needed an ironclad alibi.

He mentally reviewed his class schedule; he had Transfiguration tomorrow.

_Perfect, McGonagall._ It didn't take much to earn detention from Gryffindor's stern Head of House, but Draco knew he was about due for a detention from the professor anyway; he'd barely touched his Transfiguration homework all week.

He slipped his ring back on his finger and waited for the sleep he knew would not come.

/

/

As he'd hoped, McGonagall obliged Draco with a Saturday detention the very next morning for his missing homework, and he felt he could relax slightly as he and Theo made their way to their extra Healing lesson.

"Did you manage to ask your aunt about Occlumency yet?" Theo asked.

"You know, just because I'm related to her by blood doesn't mean—"

"I'm not interested in your technicalities today, but I'm going to take your evasive answer as a resounding _no_. What the hell are you waiting for?"

It was true, Draco had yet to find the right opportunity to ask Professor Tonks about Occlumency, and she hadn't brought up the subject during any of their lessons.

"Another job for me I suppose," said Theo determinedly.

Draco sighed, knowing any further argument would be futile.

They found their seats at the table in the back of the room, and the other students, of which there were few, filed in.

"Good morning class, please pass your essays forward—"

"—Yes, Mister Nott?"

Draco sighed again as he glanced Theo's hand in the air.

"Professor— I was wondering, could you tell us about the benefits of Occlumency and Legilimency as a Healer?"

At a table in the front of the room, Hermione felt Harry tense beside her. She shot him a sympathetic look, despite feeling he'd rather wasted his opportunity to learn Occlumency from Snape.

She'd never imagined she might have a chance to learn about it in Tonks' Healing class.

Andromeda smiled at Theo in a way that very much reminded Draco of his mother— an amused smile she reserved for him, when he _thought_ he was being particularly clever, but when she saw right through him. It had been so long since he'd seen it— so long since his mother had been happy.

"I see you've been reading up on my work— well, I won't say I mind," she clasped her hands behind her back and addressed the class as she had addressed her medical fellows countless times before.

"For those of you who may not know, Occlumency is the art of magically defending the mind against external penetration, sealing it against magical intrusion and influence – the defensive counter to Legilimency, which is the ability to extract emotions and memories from another person's mind."

"Occlumency has many uses, in life and work, especially as a Healer. It gives one the ability to compartmentalize their emotions and memories, to provide more objective diagnostics and treatments while maintaining the ability to empathize with the patient. The Healer profession is one that is well-known to be physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting, and studies are beginning to show that Occlumency can help reduce healer burn-out."

Hermione raised her hand, and Professor Tonks' nodded in her direction.

"But Professor, isn't Legilimency strictly controlled, especially as a Healer?"

"You're quite right, Miss Granger. A key aspect of Healing is _respect_ ; respect for the patient's privacy, personal characteristics, their families and caregivers, and their minds, of course. Legilimency is allowed in a very controlled and measured capacity, typically only in very severe cases."

"Excuse me professor," Susan Bones chimed tentatively. "But isn't forcing yourself into someone's mind _dis_ respectful?"

"At a very base level it does seem to come across that way, but you must remember, as Miss Granger pointed out, the use of Legilimency is calculated, careful, controlled. To provide an example, there is a patient I have been working with for over ten years… her identity is still quite unknown, and she is unable to access her memories and thoughts _without_ the assistance of Legilimency… and without extreme distress."

The class sat in awed silence for a moment.

"Will we learn the basics of Occlumency or Legilimency in your class?" Theo asked, unable to disguise the hope in his voice. He knew Draco needed it more than he did, but Theo's thirst for knowledge matched that of Hermione's.

Draco saw Andromeda smile in that familiar way yet again, "Unfortunately, no, Mister Nott. Such training is simply logistically impossible here at Hogwarts. It's best taught one-on-one. Plus, adolescence is perhaps the most challenging time to attempt to learn Occlumency… for—er, obvious reasons," she cleared her throat. "But, if any of you decide to take the path of a Healer _after_ Hogwarts, you will most certainly have the opportunity."

Theo had given him an in, and Draco turned to find his friend looking rather smug. He rolled his eyes.

"You're welcome," Theo said quietly.

"Moving on," Andromeda addressed the entire class again. "Some of you may recall Dumbledore speaking of unity at the Welcome Feast—"

_Not this again,_ Hermione grimaced.

"Surely, the idea has merit, but I believe most people do not have the luxury of living in a world of idealism. Frankly, I believe true unity is a bit of a farce, a naive delusion."

Draco leaned forward in his chair, his interest piqued.

_Thank Merlin,_ Hermione thought.

"Teamwork, however, is vital as a Healer."

_Well, never mind then…_ Hermione cringed as she thought of her and Nott's work with Felix Felicis. She'd had quite enough of _teamwork_ this year.

"As I mentioned, Occluemncy can help one compartmentalize their feelings and emotions, and their biases as well. With or without Occlumency, this skill is necessary to be successful as a Healer, as we rarely work alone. Today, you will each be assigned a partner with whom you will work with for the remainder of term, in our extra lessons only."

A few of the students in the class groaned, and Hermione bit her lip in silence. She didn't allow herself to hope that she'd be paired with Harry; things didn't seem to be going her way this term.

_At least we'll still be able to work together during the regular Healing lessons,_ Hermione tried to console herself.

"Let's get to it then," Tonks said as she unfurled a bit of parchment.

"Finch-Fletchley and Potter…"

Hermione saw Harry and Justin nod to each other in acknowledgement. Justin had been a member of the D.A.; she had a sinking feeling she would not be so lucky with her partner.

"… Nott and Bones…"

"Peachy," Theo whispered flatly, to no one in particular.

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend,_ Draco thought darkly, ignoring the names of the other students now being paired up. Draco knew Voldemort loathed the outspoken Bones family as a whole, or at least what was left of them, tortured into madness or murdered by Death Eaters— Voldemort had even killed Susan Bones' mother personally.

"…Granger and Malfoy…"

_Of course,_ Hermione thought in irritation, considering she could really use that Felix Felicis right about now. It was Harry's turn for the sympathetic look.

Draco glared at the back of Hermione's head, then unleashed said glare upon Theo, who was already smirking.

"Don't— just, don't."

"Enjoy," Theo said in a sing-song voice as he rose from his seat to join Bones.

Draco did not look up from his textbook as Granger approached, but her unmistakable brown curls were soon beside him. He heard her sigh in exasperation.

_Same, Granger, same._

"Today you and your partner will go through every technique we've learned so far," Andromeda waved her wand and a ravaged-looking grapefruit, gashed, oozing, and covered in number of as yet unidentified medical ailments, appeared on each table. "In our next lesson we will graduate to more advanced spells, and more realistic test subjects."

"More advanced than a bloody grapefruit? Didn't think it was possible," Draco murmured.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Let's just get this over with, Malfoy."

"Be my guest," Draco winced at the ghastly sight of the grapefruit, noting the dull ache in his arm. He'd become better at ignoring it, the ache of his Dark Mark, but every now and then—

"Squeamish, much?"

"Not all of us are as practiced as you at witnessing physical atrocities—" Draco lied, his mind suddenly flooded with an onslaught of the grotesque, both physical and mental, atrocities he'd witnessed over the years at the hands of his father, Death Eaters, and more recently, Voldemort. "—Potter and Weasley's faces— you must be so desensitized."

He smirked, but it was clear Hermione had stopped listening. Draco watched as she pointed her wand at the grapefruit, and, in silence, its purplish boils instantly disappeared.

_Impressive._

Draco recognized that her non-verbal spellwork extended beyond Jelly-leg and Confundus jinxes, both of which he had only successfully managed once or twice.

"Are you sure? I can only imagine how lovely the mark on your arm looks," she whispered icily and he cringed. She grinned in satisfaction.

Draco pointed his wand at the grapefruit and muttered, "Episkey."

The gash in the rind closed only slightly.

"Looks a lot better than that new scar of yours," he retorted, realizing he was simultaneously insulting his own handwriting as he remembered the details of her scar.

_But_ she _doesn't know that._

"Episkey," he tried again, and watched in dismay as juice bubbled from the fruit's wound, leaking onto the table.

"You're really terrible at this, aren't you?"

_Yes,_ Draco's mind answered despondently.

"Me? And your attempts to heal that wound on your chest were _so_ successful. Out of Pomfrey's wheelhouse too?"

Hermione sighed and healed the gash Draco had failed to mend with a quick, verbal, "Episkey." To Draco's consternation, no trace of the wound was left behind.

Despite her success, she frowned. Malfoy's presence seemed to be diminishing her ability to cast non-verbal spells.

"I'm not sure why you'd even care, but I haven't asked _anyone_ to heal it. No one else even knows about it." In truth she _had_ considered going to Madam Pomfrey or Professor Tonks, even Snape, but it seemed to her the interrogation and attention that would surely ensue would be more trouble than it was worth. She'd been careful to hide it with the right clothing choices, or, as she'd done for Slughorn's supper, a bit of Muggle make-up. She still hoped for an owl from Mr. Weasley every morning in the Great Hall.

"Why not?" He blurted, unable to stop himself, surprised to learn she'd kept the new scar a secret.

"So you _want_ me to tell—?"

"No—" he blurted again. Occlumency was sounding more and more appealing with every moment he spent in Granger's presence.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at his uncharacteristically flustered reaction. She even thought she noticed the most subtle twinge of warmth appear across his cheeks. She quickly looked away.

"It seems like more trouble than it's worth," she shrugged. It was the truth, and she saw no point in deception here. She wanted the necklace removed, and she certainly wished it had never marked her, but it had proved to be otherwise harmless. There were more important things to think about these days, after all. She reasoned if Harry could live with his scars, she could live with hers.

Draco stared at her for a long moment, and he couldn't be sure, but he thought he felt something like respect, admiration even.

He turned again to the grapefruit, "Desperismus Wartcap."

The citrus vibrated but a little, then was still.

"Bloody—"

Hermione couldn't help but grin in amusement at his obvious frustration. She knew Malfoy was typically more successful at his academic endeavors, and that he was more than capable of success, but it seemed as though he was entirely amiss this recently, particularly with Healing.

_And I bet that Mark on his arm and whatever he's been up to has something, everything probably, to do with it,_ she thought.

"Maybe you're thinking too much about getting the grapefruit back to how it used to be, you know, before it was 'wounded,'" she said as she met his gaze.

"Try imagining what it will look like _after_ it's been healed," she added softly.

She was surprised to find Malfoy actually heeding her advice, and even more surprised at herself for sincerely encouraging him. She figured he probably wasn't all that familiar with the sentiment. At any rate, they were partners now, and she wasn't about to let her pride get in the way… particularly where her grades were concerned.

_Maybe she's right,_ Draco thought grudgingly. _She's definitely better at healing than you are,_ a voice in his head reasoned.

He sighed and closed his eyes, focusing on the image of what the grapefruit _could_ look like, should he succeed.

Hermione watched him with curiosity, unable to tear her eyes away from his relaxed features, the firm line of his jaw, the curve of his slightly parted lips.

Hermione's gentle guidance echoed through his mind. "Desperismus Wartcap," he said quietly, but purposefully.

The hard, thick crust covering a section of the grapefruit disappeared instantly. It looked as though the citrus had just been plucked from the tree.

He ventured a glance at Granger, and their eyes met again, but this time— for the first time— in some sort of understanding. In that moment, they both hoped their own wounds would heal as easily, should the war ever come to an end.

/

/

A/N: I hope you're enjoying more of these Dramione moments. There are plenty more to come. Thank you for reading!


	17. Cursed

/

Hermione woke early the morning of their first trip of the term into Hogsmeade to meet with Nott to work on Felix Felicis beforehand. The potion was coming along nicely, albeit slowly, and as it progressed, they were spending increasingly more time together in the cramped room they'd been designated for brewing their liquid luck.

Hermione still didn't trust him (and he'd made it clear _he_ certainly didn't trust _her_ )— at least not outside of that cramped store room— and they continued to find at least one new way to insult the other with every meeting, but they'd also somehow managed to fall into a sort of mutually shared civility, a cautious sort of academic respect, even.

As she passed through the all but empty Gryffindor Common Room, she glanced out the window and saw a cold, stormy October day.

_At least we'll get to leave the castle for a bit,_ she considered, thinking a Butterbeer after her meeting with Nott sounded exactly like what she would need.

"You're late," Nott announced as she entered the tiny room. Fortunately, the small storeroom contained a small window, which they tended to leave open for ventilation; however, at this stage in the potion, the ventilation was doing very little to clear the air— the room was foggy with a pungent, bluish vapor.

Hermione coughed, "You're early."

"Never too early for Felix— now come here, quick."

Hermione dropped her bag on the floor and moved to stand beside Nott. Three cauldrons were bubbling atop three separate flames— three separate attempts at Felix. It was lucky Slughorn had quite the stock of ingredients, especially ones so rare, and even more lucky he'd been so willing to give them up. Knowing just how tricky the potion was to brew, and their high likelihood of failure, they'd decided to create three batches with the hope at least one would be successful.

"One and three are looking spot on, but two…" Theo said, his unusually furrowed brow betraying his worry.

Hermione peered into the cauldrons with trepidation, as she did each day, never quite certain what she would see, but tentatively hopeful. Today, cauldrons one and three were deep blue, and sparkling, like a starry night sky. To Hermione's dismay, cauldron two looked as black and menacing as a moonless midnight.

"Quick— pass me the tincture of thyme," she instructed.

Theo immediately rummaged through their store of ingredients.

"It must've gone too cold— we'll need to be more careful about leaving the window open," Hermione explained as Theo handed her the tincture.

She turned up the flame ever-so-slightly, then measured a small amount of the tincture into her hand. She rubbed it between her palms to warm it, then carefully dropped it into the midnight liquid. They waited with bated breath for a moment before, to their immense relief, the potion turned the same shade of deep blue as the other cauldrons.

"Crisis averted," Nott said as he wiped his brow.

"For now," Hermione said, releasing her breath; she hadn't been aware she'd be holding it.

"I think I'll hang around here today," Nott said as he casually leaned against the wall beside the open window. He rolled up his sleeves, and Hermione saw the skin on the inside of his forearms was smooth, free from Voldemort's Dark Mark.

_He's not a Death Eater,_ she thought, and felt another wave of relief wash through her. She wasn't sure exactly why she really cared, however, and now was not the time to examine such a thing.

"You're not going to Hogsmeade?" She asked with polite curiosity.

"Don't you think that Felix is just a _little_ more important than stuffing your pockets with sugar quills from Honeydukes?" Theo asked sarcastically.

"Of course I do, but we don't need to—" Hermione crossed her arms in exasperation.

"—I think one of us should keep an eye on the temperature in here today, make sure that's sorted," Theo interrupted.

Hermione nodded, that Butterbeer sounding more and more tempting with each passing minute spent in the same room with Nott.

"If you want to go to Hogsmeade, I could stay… it's not very nice out today, anyway," she knew her offer sounded feeble.

Theo smirked, "Thanks, but the Hogsmeade trips have never had much appeal to me anyway."

In truth, Theo had never been on any of the trips into the little town just outside of Hogwarts' grounds. He tried not to wince as he remembered just how his father had refused to sign his permission slip the first and only time he had ever worked up the courage to ask.

"But I wouldn't say no to a bit of smuggled Firewhiskey."

Hermione uncrossed her arms, her expression softening.

"If I smuggled Firewhiskey into the castle, believe me, I'd keep it for myself, Nott. Merlin knows I need it after all the time I spend in here with you and partnered with Malfoy in Healing," Hermione said as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

"My, my, Granger— I thought you were a prefect!"

"Good-bye, Nott!" She exclaimed as she left him grinning by the window, his hazel eyes filled with mirth.

"I'd also accept a bottle of the Hog's Head's finest Daisyroot Draught!" he called after her.

/

Hermione met Harry and Ron in the Great Hall for breakfast, and Ron wasted no time in regaling her with the tale of the morning's escapades.

"... and then there was another flash of light and I landed on the bed again!" Ron grinned, helping himself to sausages.

Hermione had not cracked a smile during this anecdote, and turned to Harry with a darkly significant, and worried, look. Much to her dismay, Harry seemed as keen as ever to use the book, inside and outside of class.

"Was this spell, by any chance, another one from the Half-Blood Prince?"

Harry frowned guiltily at her.

"Always jump to the worst conclusion, don't you?" Ron interjected.

"So I'm right," she sighed and pushed her eggs around on her plate. Again, Harry was acting rashly, disregarding his own safety, and now, Ron's too.

"Hermione, I—"

"So you just decided to try out an unknown, handwritten incantation and see what would happen?"

"It was a laugh!" Ron interjected, upending a ketchup bottle over his sausages. "Just a laugh, Hermione, that's all!"

"Dangling people upside down by the ankle?" said Hermione. "Who puts their time and energy into making up spells like that?" She was beginning to question the intentions of the Prince.

"Fred and George," said Ron, shrugging, "it's their kind of thing. And, er—"

"My dad," said Harry.

"What?" said Ron and Hermione together, in surprise.

"My dad used this spell," said Harry. "I—Lupin told me."

His answer seemed to appease Ron, but Hermione looked at Harry skeptically. There was definitely something Harry wasn't telling her, and she couldn't deny she felt disheartened by it.

_When did we start hiding things from each other?_ Hermione wondered.

"Maybe your dad did use it, Harry," she said, "but he's not the only one. We've seen a whole bunch of people use it, remember? Dangling people in the air. Making them float along, asleep— helpless."

She watched as understanding blossomed behind Harry's eyes.

"The Quidditch World Cup," he said quietly. She nodded in grave silence, wondering if perhaps Malfoy would soon be among that group of hidden figures, dangling people in the air— or worse.

"That was different," Ron said robustly. "They were abusing it. Harry and his dad were just having a laugh. You don't like the Prince, Hermione," he added, pointing a sausage at her sternly, "because he's better than you at Potions—"

"It's got nothing to do with that," she retorted.

In truth, it _had_ bothered her a little at first, but mostly because Harry seemed to be using the book with reckless abandon. She worried for his safety— as if he didn't have enough threatening his life. "Not everything is black and white…"

She could tell Harry was holding on to the idea that the Prince could've been his father, and she couldn't blame him for it. With Sirius gone, Lupin occupied with an Order mission, and Dumbledore absent most of the time, there wasn't much left to connect Harry to his past— to his parents — no one to guide him through this war.

"I just think it's very irresponsible to start performing spells when you don't even know what they're for… you don't know what the Prince's intentions were."

"I don't see where you get that from," said Harry heatedly. "If he'd been a budding Death Eater he wouldn't have been boasting about being 'half-blood,' would he?"

By the change in Harry's expression, she could tell that Harry had just realized he'd poked a hole in his own theory; his father had been pure-blooded.

"The Death Eaters can't all be pure-blood, there aren't enough pure-blood wizards left," she said, unrelenting. "I expect most of them are half-bloods pretending to be pure. It's only Muggle-borns they hate, they'd be quite happy to let you and Ron join up."

Hermione imagined Harry and Ron, Dark Marks burned into their arms. She winced; it was bad enough imagining Malfoy as a Death Eater.

_But he_ is _one,_ her mind whispered.

"There's no way they'd let me be a Death Eater!" said Ron indignantly, a bit of sausage flying off the fork he was now brandishing at Hermione and hitting Ernie Macmillan on the head. "My whole family are blood traitors! That's as bad as Muggle-borns to Death Eaters!"

_Not quite._ It was hard for Hermione to imagine Voldemort murdering a family of pure-bloods simply for being born that way, but she didn't really think now was the best time to say so.

"And they'd _love_ to have me," said Harry sarcastically. "We'd be best pals if they didn't keep trying to do me in."

This made Ron laugh, and even Hermione found herself smiling, albeit grudgingly.

"What's so funny?" Ginny asked, appearing beside them.

"Me as a Death Eater," Ron said casually, as if he were talking about the weather, buttering another piece of toast.

"Hilarious," Ginny said, sounding confused. "Hey, Harry, I'm supposed to give you this."

It was a scroll of parchment with Harry's name written upon it; Hermione recognized Dumbledore's thin, slanting writing.

The Headmaster had been as absent as ever the last few weeks, and although Harry kept she and Ron up-to-date with that Dumbledore showed him in the Pensieve, Hermione could tell Harry felt quite abandoned. She continued to wonder what the wizard was up to exactly. She hoped he didn't return to the castle with another dead, decaying hand.

"Thanks, Ginny... It's Dumbledore's next lesson!" Harry exclaimed, pulling open the parchment and quickly reading its contents. "Monday evening!"

"Want to come to Hogsmeade with us Ginny?" Hermione asked brightly.

"I'm going with Dean— might see you there," she replied, waving at them as she left.

Filch was standing at the oak front doors as usual, checking off the names of people who had permission to go into Hogsmeade. The process took even longer than normal as Filch was triple-checking everybody with his Secrecy Sensor.

Hermione held her breath as Filch ran the sensor over her, wondering if the necklace would trigger any alarm; she saw Harry felt the same, his expression one of nervous curiosity.

But they needn't have worried; nothing happened and Filch moved along the line without much more than a grunt. Hermione felt a surge of relief.

"What does it matter if we're smuggling Dark stuff OUT?" demanded Ron, eyeing the long, thin Secrecy Sensor with apprehension as Filch stood on his toes to reach the scanner to the level of Ron's head.

"You don't need to scan his skull Mister Filch— I can assure you, it's empty," she remarked and Harry laughed out loud.

Ron rolled his eyes, ignoring them both, and turned back to Filch, "Surely you ought to be checking what we bring back IN?"

His cheek earned him a few extra jabs with the Sensor, and she and Harry laughed harder, seeing him still wincing as they stepped out into the wind and sleet.

"Maybe it'd be _good_ if Filch found the necklace… y'know, then maybe someone would actually figure out how to get it off you," Harry mumbled through the scarf over the lower part of his face, once they were safely outside the castle in the blustery cold.

It was freezing outside, and the road to the village was full of students bent double against the bitter wind. More than once Hermione wondered whether they might not have had a better time in the warm common room, or, quite desperately, even back in the cramped classroom with Nott and Felix, but when they they finally reached Hogsmeade, Hermione's mood lightened as Harry looped his arm through hers, pulling her close.

After noting with disappointment that Zonko's was closed and boarded up, they made their way toward Honeydukes this way, staggering side-by-side in Ron's wake.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, really— and I _will_ be more careful…" Harry began tentatively.

Hermione seriously doubted this, but appreciated him saying so.

"…but I really don't think the Prince is as bad as you think he is."

"Or _she—_ " she interjected.

Harry gave her a skeptical look, but did not argue.

"Well that's the thing, we just don't know," she continued, "It's all a bit gray, don't you think? The Prince? I just don't want you to try a spell, thinking it'll be all right, and then it gets you or Ron, or someone else, hurt," she said, managing a small smile as they entered the crowded shop. "Let's just forget it for now, Harry, and try to have a good day."

Safe inside the warmth of Honeydukes, Ron turned to see Harry and Hermione speaking in hushed tones to one another, their arms still intertwined, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. They rapidly parted.

"Oh— look at these new extra large sugar quills!" She exclaimed, using the first thing she spotted as a diversion, but she needn't have bothered, as Slughorn suddenly appeared beside them.

"Harry, m'boy!"

"Oh no," muttered Harry.

Hermione winced, reminded of Slughorn's most recent dinner— the horror of the professor's comments about the necklace, but more than that, she remembered how close she'd been to Malfoy, the feeling of his arm against hers, the sensation of his intense gaze scanning the exposed skin of her collarbone— the scar that was, rather unfortunately, _their_ secret now. She shivered, and not from the cold that swept through the open doorway as another student crammed into the shop.

Professor Slughorn was wearing an enormous furry hat and an overcoat with matching fur collar, clutching a large bag of crystalized pineapple, and occupying at least a quarter of the shop.

"Harry, that's two of my little suppers you've missed now!" said Slughorn, poking him genially in the chest. "It won't do, m'boy, I'm determined to have you! Miss Granger loves them, don't you?"

"Yes," said Hermione helplessly, rather distracted by the image of Malfoy's piercing gaze, "they're really—"

"So why don't you come along, Harry?" Demanded Slughorn.

"Well, I've had Quidditch practice, Professor," said Harry, who Hermione noticed had been purposefully scheduling practices every time Slughorn had sent him a little, violet ribbon-adorned invitation.

The only benefit to Harry's avoidance had been Ron not feeling quite as left out.

"Well, I certainly expect you to win your first match after all the hard work!" said Slughorn. "But a little recreation never hurt any body. Now, how about Monday night, you can't possibly want to practice in this weather..."

"I can't, Professor, I've got—er—an appointment with Professor Dumbledore that evening."

_Lucky,_ Hermione thought.

"Unlucky again!" Cried Slughorn dramatically. "Ah, well... you can't evade me forever, Harry! I'll see you on Monday though, right Miss Granger?"

"Yes, thank you professor."

And with a regal wave, he waddled out of the shop, taking as little notice of Ron as though he had been a display of Cockroach Clusters.

"I can't believe you've wriggled out of another one," said Hermione, shaking her head. "You know I had to sit between Malfoy and Nott last time?"

She saw Harry scowl at this and could not deny she felt a bit of pleasure at his response.

"The dinners might not be so bad if we went together—" She paused as she caught sight of Ron's perturbed expression at again being ignored by Slughorn. "Oh, let's get those Deluxe Sugar Quills!"

After poking around the shop for a while, and, unable to waste any more time to simply avoid the bitter cold outside, they made their way to the Three Broomsticks.

_Butterbeer at last,_ Hermione thought in relief.

They bundled their scarves back over their faces and left the sweetshop. The fierce wind was like knives on their faces after the sugary warmth of Honeydukes. Standing just outside the Three Broomsticks, they spotted two men. One was very tall and thin, one short. Hermione recognized the tall one as the barman who worked in the other Hogsmeade pub, the Hog's Head. As she drew closer with Harry and Ron at her side, the barman drew his cloak more tightly around his neck and walked away, leaving the shorter man to fumble with something in his arms. They were barely feet from him when she realized who the man was.

"Mundungus!" Harry exclaimed, recognizing the man as well.

The squat, bandy-legged man with long, straggly, ginger hair jumped and dropped an ancient suitcase, which burst open, releasing what looked like the entire contents of a junk shop window.

"Oh, 'ello, 'Arry," said Mundungus Fletcher, with a most unconvincing stab at airiness. "Well, don't let me keep ya."

And he began scrabbling on the ground to retrieve the contents of his suitcase with every appearance of a man eager to be gone.

"Are you selling this stuff?" asked Harry, as they watched Mundungus grab an assortment of grubby-looking objects from the ground. Hermione frowned, knowing most of the items were likely stolen, or otherwise obtained through less-than-savory means.

"Oh, well, gotta scrape a living," said Mundungus. "Gimme that!"

Ron had stooped down and picked up something silver.

"Hang on," Ron said slowly. "This looks familiar—"

"Thank you!" said Mundungus, snatching the goblet out of Ron's hand and stuffing it back into the case.

Hermione recognized the silver goblet right away, from Grimmauld Place. She drew her wand, but Harry beat her to it.

"Well, I'll see you all—OUCH!"

Harry pinned Mundungus against the wall of the pub by the throat. Holding him fast with one hand, he pulled out his wand. Hermione flanked his right, pointing her own wand at the thief.

"You took that from Sirius' house," said Harry, who was almost nose to nose with Mundungus.

Hermione could smell Mundungus' unpleasant smell of old tobacco and spirits. "That had the Black family crest on it," she said.

"I—no—what—?" spluttered Mundungus, who was slowly turning purple.

"What did you do, go back the night he died and strip the place?" Harry snarled.

"I—no—"

"Give it to me!" Harry's voiced echoed even above the howl of the wind.

"Harry!" whispered Hermione fiercely, shooting him a look. "Keep your voice down— there are too many people—" She saw Mundungus had started to turn blue, but she couldn't really fault Harry, except for his lack of discretion.

There was a bang, and gasping and spluttering, Mundungus seized his fallen case, then—CRACK— he Disapparated.

Harry swore at the top of his voice, spinning on the spot to see where Mundungus had gone. Hermione shook her head in silent anger and disbelief.

"COME BACK, YOU THIEVING — !" Harry shouted.

"There's no point, Harry."

Nymphadora Tonks had appeared out of nowhere, her mousy hair wet with sleet.

"Mundungus will probably be in London by now. There's no point yelling."

"He's nicked Sirius' stuff! Nicked it!"

"Yes, but still," said Tonks, who seemed perfectly untroubled by this piece of information. "You should get out of the cold."

"But Tonks, wait— how have you been?" Hermione glanced around, then whispered, "And Lupin too? We haven't heard from him."

Hermione did not miss the sudden change in Tonks' expression, the sadness in her eyes. She said nothing.

"Is everything— okay?" Harry asked quietly, his concern for Tonks and Lupin finally tearing away his attention from Mundungus.

"What—? Oh, yeah… everything is okay. Look, we can't talk about it here and now anyway. Go inside, get out of this cold."

Ron led the way into the pub, but Harry and Hermione held back.

"You can talk to us, Tonks, you know…" Hermione tried to encourage. She watched as Tonks smiled sadly, and Hermione was almost sure the Auror was on the brink of tears.

"We like your mum's class," Harry offered. Hermione knew he was trying to support her in the only way he could manage.

"That's great— mum's brilliant, I'm sure you know that though. Now go on… it's packed in there already."

Reluctantly, they entered the Three Broomsticks. The moment they were inside, Harry sighed, then burst out, "He was nicking Sirius' stuff!"

"I know, Harry, but please don't shout, people are staring," whispered Hermione. "Go and sit down, I'll get you a drink."

_This is why he failed at Occlumency,_ Hermione thought, frowning. She hated to think poorly of Harry, and considered that no one was perfect, after all.

_I'm certainly far from it,_ she thought, knowing she too hadn't hesitated to draw her own wand on Mundungus.

She'd always admired and appreciated Harry's fierceness, his willingness to defend those he cared about without a second thought, to stand up for others— it was one of the things she respected most about him— but his rashness, his failure to listen to reason at times, his limited ability to keep his emotions in check, and his impulsive choices and lack of tact, they'd led him, led _them_ , down dangerous paths— had even led them to failure, to death.

She told herself that she trusted Harry entirely.

_Don't I?_

_Then why were you so insistent on brewing your own Felix Felicis?_ A small, skeptical voice whispered in her mind. She shook her head.

Hermione stepped up to the bar, but no one paid her any mind; Madam Rosmerta, the barmaid, was busy helping other customers. As Tonks had warned, the pub was about as busy as Hermione had ever seen it, with everyone trying to escape the brutal weather outdoors. She eyed the shelves behind the counter, colorful and glistening with bottles of every color and shape.

Hermione thought of Nott, holed up in a blue, smokey room alone with Felix, toiling all day over three bubbling cauldrons.

_He probably didn't even have anyone at home to sign his permission slip,_ Hermione thought, knowing Nott's father was currently in Azkaban, and that his mother had passed away.

Her brown eyes continued to scan the shelves, stopping only when she spotted Ogden's Firewhiskey. There was one small bottle of the spirit on display, but Hermione figured there was probably plenty more beneath the counter; it was one of the more popular Wizarding spirits of choice.

_No one will miss one little bottle._

Hermione didn't allow herself time for second thoughts. She gripped her wand, and, without uttering a single word aloud, cast a summoning charm.

The bottle soared across the bar and into her hand. She hastily shoved it into her bag. Hermione glanced to her left, then to her right; it appeared no one had noticed a thing.

_Suppose I'm the reckless one now,_ Hermione smirked. A _nd a bit of a thief. What was that Slughorn said about me being in Slytherin?_ She bit her lip, unsure if she should be smirking or grimacing.

It was about another ten minutes or so before Rosmerta took her order and delivered not three, but six Butterbeers; Hermione reasoned it had been that kind of day. She left enough money to cover the cost of the Butterbeer, plus an outrageously generous tip, to cover the cost of the Ogden's of course.

Harry was still fuming when she returned to their table.

Ron raised an eyebrow in surprise as she set down all _six_ Butterbeers.

"What?" She questioned, grinning. "Two each. It's been that kind of day, don't you think? After Mundungus— unbelievable."

This seemed to tear Harry away from his fury, as he smiled at her gratefully as she sat beside him, even wrapping his arm around her lower back as he took a swig from his bottle. She did not shy away from the gesture, but she had to admit it felt a little odd.

"Thanks, Hermione— can't the Order control Mundungus?" Harry whispered furiously. "Can't they at least stop him stealing everything that's not fixed down when he's at headquarters?"

"Shh!" said Hermione desperately, looking around to make sure nobody was listening; there were a couple of warlocks sitting close by who were staring at Harry with great interest, and Zabini was lolling against a pillar not far away. She noted with curiosity that it seemed Malfoy hadn't come to Hogsmeade— she realized she hadn't seen him once all day.

"Look Harry, I'd be annoyed too… plus, it's your things he's stealing—"

Harry gagged on his Butterbeer; it seemed he had forgotten that he owned number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

"Yeah, it's my stuff!" he said. "No wonder he wasn't pleased to see me! Well, I'm going to tell Dumbledore what's going on, he's the only one who scares Mundungus."

"Good idea," she whispered, pleased the Butterbeer seemed to be calming him down. Her mind began to wander to thoughts of Malfoy— where he might be, and what he might be up to.

"Ron, what are you staring at?" Harry asked.

"Nothing," said Ron, hastily looking away from the bar, but Hermione knew he was trying to catch the eye of Madam Rosmerta, for whom he had long nursed a soft spot.

"I expect 'nothing's' in the back getting more firewhisky," she said, grinning broadly.

Ron hid his grin behind another swig of his Butterbeer, and Harry laughed out loud, wrapping his arm around her more tightly, Mundungus apparently forgotten.

She tried to shake thoughts of Malfoy from her mind.

By the time all of their bottles were empty, Hermione's cheeks were sore from smiling so much. It had been a long time— what with N.E.W.T.s, Felix, Malfoy and Nott, Slughorn's suppers, Dumbledore's private lessons, and Quidditch practice— since she, Harry, and Ron had had any fun, just the three of them.

She turned to Harry, and saw with pleasure the green eyes behind his glasses were clear and bright.

_Like Malfoy's,_ she thought _. But with Malfoy there's always something more…_

"Hermione, you— er— you've got something—" Ron said, pointing to his own upper lip.

Harry turned to face her, and before she knew what was happening, his hand was soft and warm on her cheek as he used his thumb to gently wipe away a bit of lingering Butterbeer foam on her upper lip.

"Oh—" was all she could manage as Harry smiled at her, his cheeks flushed. The sensation of his thumb on her lips had been… well, she wasn't sure. She hadn't pulled away, at any rate.

_It's the Butterbeer,_ she told herself.

Ron pretended to busy himself by looking for Rosmerta again.

Only a short time passed before they once again drew their cloaks tightly around them, rearranged their scarves, pulled on their gloves, then followed Katie Bell and a friend out of the pub and back up the High Street.

It was a little while before Hermione became aware that the voices of Katie and her friend, which were being carried back to her on the wind, had become shriller and louder. It seemed as though they were having an argument about something Katie was holding in her hand.

"It's nothing to do with you, Leanne!" she heard Katie say.

Hermione saw Leanne made to grab hold of the package Katie was holding; Katie tugged it back and the package fell to the ground.

At once, Katie rose into the air— not as Ron described he had done that morning, suspended by the ankle— but gracefully, her arms outstretched, as though she was about to fly.

Hermione's stomach lurched; any joy she'd felt in the Three Broomsticks was suddenly gone.

_Something's very wrong… very, very wrong…_

Katie's hair was whipped around her by the fierce wind, but her eyes were closed and her face was quite empty of expression.

She, Harry, Ron, and Leanne all halted in their tracks, watching.

Then, six feet above the ground, Katie let out a terrible scream. Her eyes flew open, but whatever she could see, or whatever she was feeling, was clearly causing her terrible anguish. She screamed and screamed; Leanne started to scream too and seized Katie's ankles, trying to tug her back to the ground.

She, Harry, and Ron rushed forward to help, but as they grabbed Katie's legs, she fell on top of them; Harry and Ron managed to catch her but she was writhing so much they could hardly hold her. Instead they lowered her to the ground where she thrashed and screamed, apparently unable to recognize any of them.

Hermione looked around; the landscape seemed deserted. She knelt beside Katie and began casting every spell she could think might help.

"Nothing's working!" She looked to Harry desperately.

"Stay here!" He shouted over the howling wind. "I'm going for help!"

Hermione tried to remain calm as Harry ran toward the castle, doing her best to focus on any spell she thought might work. Katie continued to thrash and scream.

It wasn't long before Harry returned, Hagrid thankfully by his side.

"Get back!" shouted Hagrid. "Lemme see her!"

"Something's happened to her!" Sobbed Leanne. "I don't know what—"

Hagrid stared at Katie for a second, then without a word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran off toward the castle with her. Within seconds, Katie's piercing screams had died away and the only sound was the roar of the wind.

Shaken but determined, Hermione had the wherewithal to hurry over to Katie's wailing friend and put an arm around her.

"It's Leanne, isn't it?"

The girl nodded.

"I'm so sorry, but we need to know— Did it just happen all of a sudden, or—?"

"It was when that package tore," sobbed Leanne, pointing at the now sodden brown-paper package on the ground, which had split open to reveal a greenish glitter. Ron bent down, his hand outstretched, but Harry seized his arm and pulled him back.

"Don't touch it!"

Harry crouched down and Hermione moved closer as well, her arm still around Leanne. A very familiar-looking ornate opal necklace was visible, poking out of the paper. She swallowed.

_Not another cursed necklace. Malfoy…_

"I've seen that before," she said immediately, giving Harry and Ron significant looks. "It was on display in Borgin and Burkes. The label said it was cursed. Katie must have touched it."

She looked up at Leanne, who had started to shake uncontrollably. "Do you know how Katie got hold of this?"

"Well, that's why we were arguing. She came back from the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks holding it, said it was a surprise for somebody at Hogwarts and she had to deliver it. She looked all funny when she said it... Oh no, oh no, I bet she'd been Imperiused and I didn't realize!"

Leanne shook with renewed sobs. Hermione patted her shoulder gently.

"She didn't say who'd given it to her, Leanne?"

"No... she wouldn't tell me... and I said she was being stupid and not to take it up to school, but she just wouldn't listen and... and then I tried to grab it from her... and — and -" Leanne let out a wail of despair.

"We'd better get up to school," said Hermione, leading Leanne. "We'll be able to find out how she is. Come on..."

Harry hesitated for a moment, then pulled his scarf from around his face and, ignoring Ron's gasp, carefully covered the necklace in it and picked it up.

"We'll need to show it to Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said. Harry nodded in silence.

As if on cue, Harry said exactly what she had been thinking— what she realized she did not want to admit.

"Malfoy knows about this necklace. It was in a case at Borgin and Burkes when you were in there, Hermione, but it was there four years ago, too. I saw Malfoy have a good look at it while I was hiding from him and his dad. This must be what he was buying that day when we followed him! He remembered it and he went back for it!"

_It's not impossible,_ Hermione thought, frowning, trying to work out why she didn't want it to be true.

"I—I dunno, Harry," said Ron hesitantly. "Loads of people go to Borgin and Burkes... and didn't that girl say Katie got it in the girls' bathroom?"

"Leanne, Ron," Hermione interjected, shooting the shivering and sobbing Leanne a sympathetic look. "And she said she came back from the bathroom with it, she didn't necessarily get it in the bathroom itself—"

"McGonagall!" said Ron warningly.

Sure enough, Professor McGonagall was hurrying down the stone steps through swirling sleet to meet them.

"Hagrid says you four saw what happened to Katie Bell—upstairs to my office at once, please! What's that you're holding, Potter?"

"It's the thing she touched," said Harry.

"Good Lord," said Professor McGonagall, looking alarmed as she took the necklace from Harry. "No, no, Filch, they're with me!" she added hastily, as Filch came shuffling eagerly across the entrance hall holding his Secrecy Sensor aloft. "Take this necklace to Professor Snape at once, but be sure not to touch it, keep it wrapped in the scarf!"

They followed Professor McGonagall upstairs and into her office. The sleet-spattered windows were rattling in their frames, and the room was chilly despite the fire crackling in the grate. Professor McGonagall closed the door and swept around her desk to face Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the still sobbing Leanne.

"Well?" she said sharply. "What happened?"

Haltingly, and with many pauses while she attempted to control her crying, Leanne recounted what had happened. By the end, Leanne was so overcome, there was no getting another word out of her.

"All right," said Professor McGonagall, not unkindly, "go up to the hospital wing, please, Leanne, and get Madam Pomfrey to give you something for shock."

When she had left the room, Professor McGonagall turned back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

"Why is it when something happens, it is always you three?"

"Believe me Professor, I've been asking myself the same thing for six years," said Ron humorlessly.

Hermione saw the corner of McGonagall's mouth twitch, despite the serious circumstances.

"What happened when Katie touched the necklace?"

"She rose up in the air," said Harry, before either Ron or Hermione could speak, "and then began to scream, and collapsed. Professor, can I see Professor Dumbledore, please?"

"The Headmaster is away until Monday, Potter," said Professor McGonagall, looking surprised.

"Away?" Harry repeated angrily. Hermione shot him a warning look.

_It's not McGonagall's fault Dumbledore doesn't tell you anything._

"Yes, Potter, away!" said Professor McGonagall tartly. "But anything you have to say about this horrible business can be said to me, I'm sure!"

"I think Draco Malfoy gave Katie that necklace, Professor."

Hermione winced. Ron looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else at the moment.

"That is a very serious accusation, Potter," said Professor McGonagall, after a shocked pause. "Do you have any proof?"

"No," said Harry, and Hermione gave him her best disapproving look.

Undeterred, he continued, "but..." and he told her about following Malfoy to Borgin and Burkes and the conversation they had overheard between him and Mr. Borgin. Hermione was thankful he left out any mention of her snooping around the shop, and her confrontation with Malfoy.

Hermione considered now might be a good time to tell McGonagall about the necklace still clasped around her neck, and the scar it had given her, but for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to mention it.

Her better judgement told her the cursed opal necklace had been Malfoy's doing— it seemed there were too many coincidences. But she felt almost certain the object he'd discussed with Borgin was _not_ the opal necklace… and just because Malfoy had seen the necklace in the store, didn't mean he had bought it— just because she was almost certain he was a Death Eater didn't mean that he'd been behind the incident…

_Did it?_

It all seemed so gray… as gray as Malfoy's piercing gaze, which Hermione had now seen conflicted, fearful even, on more than one occasion. She remembered the subtle softness of his voice as he'd asked her why she hadn't told anyone about her scar, and the moment of understanding they'd shared in Professor Tonks' class.

But there were still his angry glares, the snide comments about Harry and Ron, the threats of retribution--not to mention five-years worth of wretchedness-- and of course the platinum necklace, still light and cool against her throat.

When Harry had finished speaking, Hermione saw Professor McGonagall looked slightly confused.

"Malfoy took something to Borgin and Burkes for repair?"

"No, Professor, he just wanted Borgin to tell him how to mend something, he didn't have it with him. But that's not the point, the thing is that he bought something at the same time, and I think it was that necklace—"

"You saw Malfoy leaving the shop with a similar package?"

"No, Professor, he told Borgin to keep it in the shop for him—"

"But Harry," Hermione interrupted, "Borgin asked him if he wanted to take it with him, and Malfoy said no—"

"Because he didn't want to touch it, obviously!" said Harry angrily, as if they closeness they'd shared in the Three Broomsticks was now completely forgotten.

"What he actually said was, 'How would I look carrying that down the street?'" she said cooly, undeterred.

"Well, he would look a bit of a prat carrying a necklace," interjected Ron.

"Oh, Ron," said Hermione despairingly, "it would be all wrapped up, so he wouldn't have to touch it, and quite easy to hide inside a cloak, so nobody would see it! I think whatever he reserved at Borgin and Burkes was noisy or bulky, something he knew would draw attention to him if he carried it down the street— and in any case," she pressed on loudly, before Harry could interrupt, "I asked Borgin about the necklace, don't you remember? When I went in to try and find out what Malfoy had asked him to keep, I saw it there. And Borgin just told me the price, he didn't say it was already sold or anything—"

"Well, you were being really obvious, he realized what you were up to within about five seconds, of course he wasn't going to tell you—anyway, Malfoy could've sent off for it since—" Harry argued.

"That's enough!" said Professor McGonagall, as Hermione again opened her mouth to retort. Harry glared at her, then directed a rather pointed look at her necklace.

"Potter, I appreciate you telling me this, but we cannot point the finger of blame at Mr. Malfoy purely because he visited the shop where this necklace might have been purchased. The same is probably true of hundreds of people—"

"— that's what I said—" muttered Ron.

"— and in any case, we have put stringent security measures in place this year. I do not believe that necklace can possibly have entered this school without our knowledge—"

"But—"

"— and what is more," said Professor McGonagall, with an air of awful finality, "Mr. Malfoy was not in Hogsmeade today."

_That explains it,_ Hermione thought. She hadn't seen him anywhere all day. Harry gaped at McGonagall, clearly deflating.

"How do you know, Professor?"

"Because he was doing detention with me. He has now failed to complete his Transfiguration homework twice in a row. So, thank you for telling me your suspicions, Potter," she said as she marched past them, "but I need to go up to the hospital wing now to check on Katie Bell. Good day to you all."

She held open her office door. They had no choice but to file past her without another word.

"Why didn't you tell McGonagall about your necklace Hermione?"

"Yeah…" Ron said, as if only now remembering that Malfoy had clasped an unremovable piece of jewelry around her neck.

"I didn't think it was important," Hermione said evasively.

"Right. You just didn't want to add any evidence to my argument," replied Harry shortly.

"So who do you reckon Katie was supposed to give the necklace to?" Ron interjected, much to Hermione's thanks, as they climbed the stairs to the common room.

"Goodness only knows," she replied. "But whoever it was has had a narrow escape. No one could have opened that package without touching the necklace."

"It could've been meant for loads of people," said Harry. "Dumbledore—the Death Eaters would love to get rid of him, he must be one of their top targets. Or Slughorn— Dumbledore reckons Voldemort really wanted him and they can't be pleased that he's sided with Dumbledore. Or—"

"Or you," Hermione said quietly.

_It could've been you._ She felt her chest constrict tightly, and suddenly the anger she'd been feeling toward Harry transformed into fear.

"Couldn't have been," said Harry dismissively, "or Katie would've just turned around in the lane and given it to me, wouldn't she? I was behind her all the way out of the Three Broomsticks. It would have made much more sense to deliver the parcel outside Hogwarts, what with Filch searching everyone who goes in and out. I wonder why Malfoy told her to take it into the castle?"

"Harry, Malfoy wasn't in Hogsmeade!" She said, and she found herself actually stamping her foot in frustration.

_What about Polyjuice?_ She thought suddenly, a part of her admitting Malfoy was certainly capable of brewing such a potion— and _knowing_ Nott was most definitely more than capable.

"He must have used an accomplice, then," said Harry. "Crabbe or Goyle-or, another Death Eater— come to think of it… what about Nott?"

"Nott isn't a Death Eater," Hermione said immediately, unable to stop herself.

Harry and Ron looked at her curiously.

"I've seen his arms— in the library. He rolls up his sleeves," she lied quickly as Harry's eyes narrowed. "No Mark."

She considered it wasn't an _outright_ lie. She knew Nott did roll up his sleeves, he'd done it just this morning… while he was working on their Felix Felicis. At any rate, she knew he did not have the Mark.

"He could still be helping Malfoy. Where was the git today anyway?"

_Dutifully working on the three batches of Felix Felicis I haven't told you about,_ Hermione thought, grimacing at her deception. _Or, at least that's what he told me he'd be doing…_

Suddenly, it occurred to Hermione that she _had_ noticed Malfoy and Nott in each other's company more often this year than years past, and she hadn't really been paying all that much attention in the Three Broomsticks, not from the moment the Butterbeer had touched her lips anyway… she supposed Nott _could_ have managed to get that necklace to Katie undetected…

_There's an owlry in Hogsmeade…_ Hermione thought, a sudden feeling of dread washing over her.

"I've got to go," she said abruptly, turning on the spot.

"Wait!" Harry called, "Where are you—"

"Library!" She called back breathlessly, "I forgot I have a Runes essay due on Monday!"

/

/

A/N: There is a lot of HBP's original text in this chapter, and I debated condensing it, but I felt it was important to the overall plot. Anyway, I hope you're enjoying this fic. Thank you for reading!


	18. Liquid Fire

/

"Where were you today, Nott?" Hermione had found him in exactly the same place she'd left him that morning, albeit a touch more harried-looking, hunched over three bubbling midnight blue cauldrons, the room thick and warm with a dense swirling fog.

Her cheeks were flushed from the effort of her sprint through the castle to the cramped room, and her chest heaved as she pointed her wand squarely at Nott's nose.

He held his hands up as if in surrender, completely unprepared and entirely perturbed by her abruptness.

"Granger, you've officially lost it. What the hell did Potter and Weasley do to you in Hogsmeade? Did they slip something in your Butterbeer?"

"Don't— you _heard_ me, Nott. Where were you today?"

Her golden brown eyes were blazing and fierce, even through Felix's blue haze. Theo briefly considered that he could now say he knew how Draco had likely felt on the train, when she'd had him at wand-point.

He wasn't about to give in, however.

"Why? Someone attack Potter out there in the open? Can't believe they still let that git out of the castle. Don't tell me he's made yet another visit to our dear Madam Pomfrey."

Hermione stepped forward with more quickness than he'd ever imagined her capable. He felt the tip of her wand against his sternum.

"Just tell me."

"Or what, prefect? You'll hex me? Go ahead—"

He could hear his heart thumping in his ears— he wasn't foolish enough not to be at least a _little_ intimidated; he knew she wasn't top of their year for nothing.

Hermione's eyes darkened, unblinking. She backed away slowly, inching toward the steaming cauldrons, her wand position unwavering. She reached her other hand toward the cauldrons and Theo actually felt his own eyes widen as he recognized her silent threat to destroy their work.

"You _wouldn't—_ "

"You have no idea what I would or wouldn't do, Nott."

This much was true, as true as it was for Draco. Honestly, he wasn't really sure what _either_ of them were fully capable of, and he wasn't in the mood to find out.

"You're mad."

"Don't make me ask again," she said, glancing briefly at the cauldrons before meeting his gaze again.

"If I must— where the bleeding hell do you _think_ I've been all day? I was _here_. And if you _must_ know, I left twice to use the loo and once to eat lunch in the Great Hall… but that's it."

There was a moment of silence, interrupted only by the low rumbling of their developing potion.

"I don't believe you."

"Of course you don't. Congratulations, you're more intelligent than the common troll. Only a fool would believe the first thing someone tells you in an interrogation."

"This isn't an interrogation," she said, and Theo noticed her brow furrow in concern.

_She really can't bear to think of herself as the bad guy._

"Look, I don't know what I can do to—" Theo stopped as he suddenly recalled the Veritaserum he'd nicked from his grandfather's old potions' stores. Slughorn hadn't been lying when he'd referred to Nehemiah's potioneering obsession.

Theo's own father had told him that when his grandfather had died, the old coot had made or accumulated enough Veritsaserum to interrogate the UK's entire wizarding population, or, more realistically, all its blood traitors. He'd grown up not only knowing his father had inherited this collection, but had been on the receiving end of it on more than one occasion. When Theo had been old enough to realize the value of such a potion, he managed to swipe his own little store of the stuff. He'd never used it, though, despite how helpful it would've been to get the truth from Malfoy on more than one occasion over the years.

_I'm not a monster,_ Theo thought, swallowing hard at the memory of the agony he'd endured at the hands of his father's use of Veritaserum— with the realization he was about to _volunteer_ to drink it.

"Give me Veritaserum."

He couldn't believe Granger actually had the nerve to sigh impatiently.

_Merlin, she and Draco are two mandrakes in the same soil._

"That would be helpful if we actually had—"

"In the case," Theo explained simply, wanting nothing more than to get this over with. He needed Felix, so he knew he had to convince her of the truth. It was the only way. "I stole some from my father, after the start of his little summer holiday," he lied.

Even though it was but a brief mention, it felt strange to talk about his father out loud, let alone with _Granger._

"No," her voice echoed dully throughout the room.

"You're telling me you've got a better idea? You'll never believe me without it, just like I wouldn't believe you."

Theo noted the conflict in her expression, but he felt strangely proud to see she never lowered her wand.

"Fine, what does it look like? Surely even you aren't stupid enough to keep it in a bottle labelled 'Veritaserum.'"

"I'm touched, you don't think I'm stupid. What a tender moment."

She gain sighed with audible impatience.

"Round, little pink bottle…" he explained.

Theo watched as Hermione rummaged through his potions kit, emerging with said bottle after a moment or two.

"Do you want to sit down for this?"

"You're deciding to be thoughtful _now_? Granger, you really are sick."

"Just take it," she ordered, then bit her lip.

"Cheers," he replied, feigning enjoyment, as he took the bottle from her hand and took a swig without hesitation. Hermione watched him in silence, her brown eyes wide.

It'd been a long time since Veritaserum— the administration of which his father had referred to as "parenting"— had touched his lips— and he'd vaguely hoped it might've prepared him for the pain, but now the potion seared through his mouth, nose, and throat as if he had swallowed liquid fire. His heart raced in his ears and chest, and he felt as though he could feel each agonizing drop of the potion enter his stomach, slowly, one by one.

Then, suddenly, it was as if he'd been flayed open, Adam's apple to navel. He was sure Granger could see his heart, beating there in the open cavity of his chest. He doubled over in agony, flashes of light obscuring his vision. It was all worse— so much worse— than he remembered.

Hermione lunged forward to prop him up as he staggered against the potion's effects, and he managed to brace himself against her weight and the corner of a table.

"Quick—" he groaned in a voice he did not recognize.

"Where were you today?"

"I was here— working on Felix Felicis. I went— I went to the loo twice, and I— I ate lunch in the Great Hall," he didn't attempt to resist the potion's desire for the truth.

The pain was unbearable, and he was grateful for Granger's continued assistance to simply remain somewhat upright.

"Do you know anything about a cursed necklace?"

"—Yes—"

He saw Hermione's eyes narrow in anger.

"Your necklace—"

Her expression softened sightly. "It's cursed?"

"I—I don't know, actually," he resisted the urge to cry out in pain, "I know— only Draco can take— take it off—"

_And that's all,_ Theo convinced himself firmly, even though he knew more about the necklace's locator ability, even though the potion's fiery tendrils were taking hold. His resistance techniques were coming back to him. _That's all,_ he told the Veritaserum as it urged him to say more.

"Do you know anything about a cursed opal necklace?"

This one was easier, Theo had no idea what she was talking about.

"No," He croaked, wondering why she was asking about a different necklace.

"Where was Draco today?"

"—McGonagall— detention— as far as I know."

"Did he have anything delivered to the owlry in Hogsmeade?"

"Granger— stop—"

He didn't think he could bear the torture any longer. He collapsed to his knees and Granger did the same, facing him as she braced his shoulders with her hands.

Theo had lost the capacity to consider the meaning behind her questions.

"I don't— know. I try— to help him— but he doesn't…" Theo could not stop the words from escaping his lips, despite his best efforts, "…tell me much."

"Do you have any reason to believe you've been Imperiused?"

This question was so unexpected, he answered instantly, "No."

"Granger— stop—!"

"Do you want to give Draco the Felix Felicis when we finish?"

"Yes— _fuck_ —!"

"I figured as much…"

"Congrats—antidote— now—"

He saw her pause momentarily, a maniacal smirk gracing her lips, as if she'd suddenly remembered a particularly snarky joke someone had told her.

"Do you think you're smarter than me?"

"—what the— hell?— yes— I'm smarter— with some things!"

The Veritaserum forced out each word; Theo could fight no longer, the brief relief the truth provided too tempting.

"Do you think I'm attractive?"

This, Theo answered of his _own_ volition, "I think— you're a sadist!"

Even through his agony, some part of him was amused. The Veritaserum wouldn't let him breathe, however, not until he answered fully, and truthfully.

"—yes, I think you're—attractive, but— not as attractive— as I think— Draco— finds you."

Wildly, he actually felt like laughing as she retreated from him in surprise, and disturbance, and—

_Is she blushing?_ The pain roared through his skull, and the bluish fog seemed to be suffocating him. He was sure he was about to lose consciousness.

"Get— the bloody antidote—!"

As if coming to, she scrambled to her feet and rummaged through his potions' case again. Theo's palms fell to the floor as he attempted to brace himself on his his hands and knees.

"Seriously—? And you— call yourself… a witch! Accio Veritaserum antidote!" He gasped.

The small bottle of antidote flew into his shaking, outstretched hand and he drank from it as though he were rapidly perishing of dehydration.

The searing pain instantly faded, leaving his entire body throbbing, his chest heaving. He collapsed onto his back, his hazel eyes staring up into the blue fog.

"Nott!"

To his surprise, Hermione rushed to his side, actual concern in her voice.

"You suddenly care about my well-being?" He breathed, his voice weak. "Where was that concern two minutes ago? _'Do you think I'm attractive?'_ Honestly, Granger… you're unbelievable!"

"Sorry—"

"No, you're not. But I commend you. Id've probably done the same," he smirked.

"I'd ask you if you're okay, but that seems rather—"

"Pointless? At last, you and I agree on something."

Still on his back, he turned his head to the side, and found her sitting propped up against the wall, her arms around her knees, watching him. He didn't know how to feel about her concern for him… it was a foreign feeling, one he didn't have the strength to examine.

"You know, Malfoy's a—" she began.

"A what? Git? Bloody arsehole? Twat? Prat? Fu—"

"—yes," she hastily interrupted his slew of curses.

"So are Potter and Weasley, you know. Complete gits— but I suppose that's the thing about friendship, or something. I dunno what that says about us… but since we're getting on so swimmingly, let's agree not to pity each other, okay?"

They considered each other for a moment, and, in silence, agreed.

Theo wondered if effects of the Veritaserum had not completely worn off yet, or if he just no longer cared.

He watched with curiosity as she pulled her bag into her lap and searched through its contents. A moment later, her hand emerged, clasped around the neck of a bottle of Ogden's finest.

"Is that—? I must be hallucinating from the pain— take me to the hospital wing."

"Are you sure? More for me then," she said as she uncapped the bottle and brought it to her lips. She winced comically at the taste and he laughed out loud at her expression, unwittingly causing him to grimace at his own lingering pain.

He and Draco had become rather well-acquainted with the sensation of Ogden's burn that summer. '"Can't let it go bad,"' Draco had proclaimed each time they'd uncapped a bottle.

With much effort, Theo managed to prop himself up on his elbows. He felt like he'd been run over by a Hippogriff.

"Here," she said. "Drink. I got it for you anyways… for watching over Felix today. And don't give me that look— I'm of age, you know."

"Me too… not that it matters."

He did as he was told, and gladly. The burn was warm and comforting compared to the searing fury of Veritaserum.

"Suppose this means you're done working on Felix, now that you know I'll probably just give it to Draco?"

To his surprise, she shrugged. "I figured that might be your plan— or at least you planned to share it with him… assuming we're even able to do it right."

She was right, of course. He had his own doubts about their ability to complete the potion at all, let alone successfully, but he _had_ planned to share it with Draco— Merlin knew the prat needed it. He eyed the still-bubbling cauldrons wearily.

"Now what the hell was that about a cursed opal necklace?"

"Ask Malfoy," she answered gravely, any shred of lightness from the room now erased.

/

/

By the time Hermione made it back to Gryffindor Tower, it was completely deserted; she had even been forced to wake the Fat Lady, much to the portrait's great disapproval and irritation.

Hermione had been prepared with an explanation, lest she should she be caught out of the common room after hours (she had decided to extend her prefect's patrol a few hours, after hearing what had happened to Katie Bell). Thankfully, she hand't needed to resort to this lie, as she'd somehow made it back to Gryffindor Tower without crossing the path of a single person, alive or ghost. Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, had been nowhere to be seen.

It seemed the common room had been emptied long ago, the typically blazing fire now minimized to a pile of black and amber coals and white ash.

The room was uncharacteristically chilly, but she didn't feel it— she was completely wired from her "conversation" with Theo… and a little drunk, too.

She plopped herself on the floor in front of the dying embers, wrapping her sweater more tightly around her, and retrieved a quill and a scrap of parchment from her bag.

_Right—_ she thought, doing her best to focus, as if she were actually setting up to write that essay she'd claimed was due on Monday.

_'Things I Know So Far,'_ she scribbled at the top of the parchment, barely noticing her scrawl had become rather untidy, thanks to Ogden's.

_'-Katie obtained a cursed necklace, probably in the bathroom at the Three Broomsticks, but we don't know how she got it_

_-Katie was meant to deliver the necklace to someone, but we don't know who_

_-The necklace is the same one Harry and I saw at Borgin and Burkes_

_-Malfoy also definitely saw the necklace, and knows of its existence_

_-Malfoy wanted Borgin to fix something_

_-Malfoy reserved something that was probably too large or bulky to carry out of the shop_

_-Nott doesn't know anything about the necklace or what Malfoy's up to, but he knows he's up to something, and he's trying to help him, but Malfoy won't let him'_

Hermione sighed and ran her hand through her already disheveled hair.

She wasn't sure how she felt for Theo— sympathetic? No— he'd said not to pity him, nor herself.

_He's right._

It was clear Theo recognized she'd been in his place before, or something like it, and she certainly felt an odd sort of kinship for his position, not unfamiliar with the difficulties of wanting to help your best friends— to show them they weren't alone— even as they refused to accept it.

She reviewed her list so far, and continued writing furiously:

_'-Malfoy had detention with McGonagall all day because he isn't keeping up with his homework, probably because he's been too busy with whatever it is he's up to_

_-Snape and Malfoy are acting differently around each other_

_-Malfoy is probably a Death Eater_

_-Nott probably knows Malfoy is probably a Death Eater_

_-Nott is not a Death Eater_

_-Nott will probably give Malfoy Felix Felicis, if we succeed'_

_…and Nott thinks I'm attractive, but not as attractive as he thinks Malfoy thinks I am…_ she thought involuntarily, suddenly feeling irrationally warm and tingly, as if the dying embers before her had leapt into a roaring flame.

_Focus—_ she told herself.

Hermione reviewed the list again and again, as if clear answers would suddenly emerge between the lines of her hastily-written words, but none came.

She had no actual proof that Malfoy had been behind what had happened to Katie, but she couldn't deny the mounting evidence, nor the nagging feeling in her heart.

She also couldn't deny that part of her hoped Malfoy _hadn't_ been behind it, that she was all wrong, and he actually _wasn't_ a Death Eater.

_Don't be stupid,_ she thought, in a voice that sounded quite like Nott's. _Why do you care so much about Malfoy?_

_I don't want_ anyone _to be a Death Eater,_ she argued internally. _Not just Malfoy._

Hermione recognized her own thoughts sounded unconvincing.

She wasn't sure of much, but as she reviewed her list one more time, she decided one thing was for certain:

_I need to keep a closer eye on Malfoy._

/

/

A/N: I know Veritaserum is a trope, but I really enjoyed putting my own spin on it for Hermione and Theo. I hope you enjoyed reading it! I also hope you're liking Theo's character development. I'd like to dedicate this chapter to all the reviewers here and on FFN, especially VulgarAssassin, my first reviewer for this fic. Thank you for your recommendation to post here on AO3!


	19. The Shame of Slytherin House

/

Draco's day had been nothing short of a nightmare.

He had spent the day locked up in McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom, struggling internally— restless, anxious, and fearful, all the while under Gryffindor's Head of House's watchful, yet equally oblivious, eye.

He knew everything had gone wrong the moment the brainless half-giant had appeared in the doorway of the classroom, sputtering about a student being cursed on the Hogsmeade trip.

McGonagall had hastily dismissed him, and he ran immediately for the nearest bathroom to promptly vomit. His heart had been racing out of control, and he'd gripped either side of the ancient porcelain sink in an attempt to brace himself. He looked up into the mirror and saw his ashen, tear-streaked face staring back at him.

_Pathetic._

His saving grace had been that he'd been alone, or at least, there'd been no _living_ soul present; he'd had to banish Moaning Myrtle, which, considering the delicate emotional state of the ghost, had been thankfully simple.

But that was about all he had to be thankful for; it was only a matter of time before Voldemort learned of his failure.

_At least he can't summon me from Hogwarts,_ Draco reasoned. But he knew his _mind_ was not safe, even though his private Occlumency lessons with Professor Tonks were going surprisingly well— he wasn't stupid enough to believe he was a match for Voldemort's Legilimency, even at this distance.

His Occlumency lessons were about the only thing that seemed to be going well, as he continued to make no headway with the mending of the Vanishing Cabinet, and it was clear his most recent endeavor— the cursed necklace— had failed.

He'd recalled seeing the cursed opal necklace in Borgin and Burkes with his father years ago, but he'd gotten the idea _after_ his confrontation with Granger in the shop, after he'd clasped the thin platinum necklace around her.

He'd managed to communicate to with Borgin and Greyback (who was tasked with keeping an eye on the shady shopkeep, much to Draco's dismay) to send the necklace via owl to Hogsmeade. Draco had Imperiused Rosmerta, and used the Protean coins to communicate with the barmaid; she was to collect the package, then Imperius a Hogwarts' student to deliver it to its intended target.

He'd known the plan was more than a bit convoluted, with a few too many variables, and a risky plan at that, but it had seemed the most feasible, and quickest— Voldemort's ire, and impatience, always at the forefront of his mind. Draco knew Voldemort did not exactly look kindly upon inaction.

_And he'll look_ so _kindly upon my failure._

With what shred of composure Draco had left, he smoothed his hair and straightened his robes before making his way toward the Room of Hidden Things. Knowing Theo never went on the Hogsmeade trips, Draco had just begun to vaguely wonder what his fellow Slytherin had been up to all day when Professor Snape appeared, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him into an empty classroom.

The door swung and locked resoundingly behind the professor. Draco had remembered to fear Voldemort's retribution, but somehow, he'd forgotten about Snape's.

The professor wasted no time.

"Have you lost _all_ sense? What were you thinking? A cursed necklace— _that_ was your best idea?"

"I don't know what the hell you're—"

"You think you can lie to me, Draco? Perhaps I should have stopped giving you any credit long ago. I will not ask again— what— were— you— thinking?" The Professor's eyes were as dark as night, his expression stony and impatient.

Draco's fear transformed suddenly into indignant rage.

"Oh, I don't know, just looking for a bit of a laugh. I was taking bets on who would get cursed— I won't even tell you how many Galleons the other students put on Potter, odds were ten to one. Seems our _Dark Lord—_ " Draco spat out the term, "—isn't the only one who wants the speckled git dead."

"You're hopelessness has extended far beyond the realm of what I ever imagined possible," Snape drawled without a shred of humor or sarcasm.

"Don't you think I know that?!" Draco yelled.

"If you'd—"

"Why _the bloody hell_ do you think I did it?!" Draco interrupted angrily. "I had to do _something—"_

"But you did not have to do something so painfully foolish. A cursed necklace? Did you even consider—"

"Of course I _considered_ — every way it might fail. It's _all_ I can consider—he's going to kill me, or worse—"

_Mother._

For an instant, Draco saw Snape's brow furrow, but the moment was gone as quickly as it had come.

"The girl is being sent to St. Mungo's. He will know soon, and he will be angry. You must be prepared."

"The girl?" Draco questioned. "Who was it? Who was cursed?" Draco suddenly wondered if the necklace had somehow fallen into Granger's hands.

_Good,_ he tried to convince himself, _she'll be out of the way now._ But the voice in his head was feeble.

"I am surprised to learn of your concern, after an act so thoughtless."

Draco glared.

"If you must know, it was Katie Bell, and she is lucky to be alive. She had a hole in her glove, and it appears only a small bit of her finger touched the necklace. If she not been transported to the castle rather quickly, and both Professor Tonks and I had been unavailable, she most certainly would have died…"

_So it wasn't Granger._

Draco was't sure how he felt at the news— and now was certainly not the time to examine his feelings on the matter.

"How is your Mark coming along?"

_Pitifully,_ Draco thought involuntarily, and, without speaking, pulled up his sleeve to reveal his left forearm. He watched as Snape's eyes narrowed.

Draco's Dark Mark was as inflamed and gnarled as ever, even purple in places where it seemed the black outline was twisting, snakelike in a desperate attempt to take hold.

"I must go to the Dark Lord."

"Don't intervene," Draco blurted. "He'll think I'm— I'm weak."

Snape gave him a long, pitying look that Draco was sure said, _'He already knows you're weak, and so do I.'_

"I must attempt to assuage some of his— displeasure— with your performance… and speak to him about your Christmas holiday," Snape said dryly. "It would be unwise for him to be able to see you in person, not with your Mark so raw… and not until you've succeeded…"

Draco remained silent. The memory of the agony of Voldemort's Crucio traversed his spine, and he found he couldn't agree with Snape more.

"You continue to refuse my assistance, but I urge you to at the very least heed this advice— accept the Mark."

Draco rolled down his sleeve, doing his best not to wince at the throbbing pain, physical and otherwise.

"Perhaps the Dark Lord will allow you to remain in the castle— to give you time to— _progress._ "

Draco hadn't even considered the holiday break. The idea of celebrating Christmas felt like a joke, and the thought of returning home— where he knew Voldemort would likely be waiting for him, where his mother's suffering only increased as his failures grew— made him feel like he was going to again be violently ill.

In painful silence, Snape gave Draco one last significant look before leaving him in the dark and silent classroom, his long cloak gliding ominously behind him.

Draco wished the blackness of the classroom would swallow him whole.

/

/

Draco sat alone in the Slytherin Common room, his ring shining even in the dim light, watching with deep curiosity as the inscription inside finally changed from 'Storeroom, 6th fl.' through various corridors until ending at last on 'Gryffindor Common Rm.'

_What the hell has she been doing all night?_ Draco wondered.

_Probably snogging Potter,_ his mind replied. He was sure he could taste bile; whether or not it was new or the remnants from earlier, he couldn't be sure.

_And where the hell is Nott?_ Draco wondered, thinking his friend's simultaneous absence was at the very least highly suspicious.

_He and Granger couldn't be…_

Draco grimaced at the thought that perhaps there was something going on between Theo and Granger, and suddenly felt empty inside. If his heart decided to stop beating in that moment, he was sure he wouldn't care.

As if on cue, there was a commotion behind him, and Draco turned to find Professor Snape dragging Theo into the Common Room by the collar of his markedly disheveled robes.

Apparently, it was so late that Snape had had enough time to have audience with the Dark Lord and return to Hogwarts in time to complete Saturday evening patrol duty.

"Ah— of course," Snape announced joylessly upon spotting Draco. "Malfoy and Nott— it seems I've interrupted a meeting of the shame of Slytherin House—"

"Interrupting? Never! We couldn't start without you, professor— our fearless leader!" Theo announced loudly.

Snape released Theo's collar so forcefully he staggered forward, falling unceremoniously into the sofa adjacent Draco's high-backed chair.

"I would give you detention, Nott, if I could stand to see your face but for a moment longer. Muffliato—" Snape said, brandishing his wand, and Draco watched him with curiosity for using a verbal spell, let alone one he had never heard before.

Clearly noting Draco's surprise, Snape explained, "—so you two do not spread your ignorance to the rest of the students in your house. I highly suggest you learn it, and quickly. You should be unheard for about one hour, although I hardly think that will be enough time for Nott to sober himself."

Snape turned and left without another word, the stone wall re-materializing behind him.

"Why do we even have a fireplace in here?" Theo rambled. "It's always cold and damp— it's a bloody dungeon—"

"You're drunk."

"Stop trying to be my mum… she's dead. But yes, I might be— not dead, like my dead mum, but drunk. Let me check though…"

Theo pulled a bottle of Ogden's from his robes and held it up to the dim light. The bottle was nearing empty.

"Looks that way," Theo gestured in gratitude at the bottle.

"Give me that—" Draco said sharply, reaching for the bottle. Theo's reflexes being significantly impaired, Draco easily took possession of the libation.

"Where'd you get this?" Draco asked in earnest, brining the bottle to his lips, the idea of drunkenness incredibly tempting after the absolute failure of the opal necklace and his impromptu meetings with Snape.

He grimaced, but it had nothing to do with the welcome burn of firewhisky; he knew he and Theo were bound to pay for their impertinence in Snape's Defense class come Monday.

"And where were you all night?" Draco asked, taking another gulp, wincing only slightly.

Theo smiled diabolically.

"Ah, my dear fellow 'Shame of Slytherin House' club member… you have asked me two questions that may or may not have the same answer."

Draco glared at Theo through narrowed eyes, again recalling the inscription he'd seen inside his ring: _'Storeroom, 6th fl.'_

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I've been interrogated _quite_ enough this evening! It's _my_ turn to ask the questions… questions like, 'do you know anything about a cursed opal necklace?' And, 'did you know there was an owlry in Hogsmeade—?'"

Draco tried to employ his newly learned methods of Occlumency to hide his surprise at Theo's knowledge, but the Ogden's now coursing through his veins was already making it difficult. He vaguely wondered if he'd remembered to eat anything all day.

"—although, I don't know why I'm wasting my time asking. I already know the answer to those questions is 'yes.' You've got quite a thing for cursed jewelry, eh? You know, most girls have better taste than Parkinson, I think they'd prefer if their jewelry _wasn't_ cursed— although… Granger _does_ seem to like hers…"

Draco sighed. He hated to admit it, but it was becoming more and more difficult to hide from Theo, especially after his most recent failure. His desperation nagged at him.

_'_ _It doesn't hurt to have an ally.'_

His mother was right. Draco took another swig from the nearly empty bottle of Ogden's before speaking.

"I've been trying to— to fix something."

Theo suddenly sat up as straight as an arrow, as if Draco's words had a sobering effect.

"A Vanishing Cabinet, to be exact… but you'll be pleased to know I'm failing miserably. Now— where were you tonight?"

Theo blinked at him in silence for a moment before leaning back into the couch, spreading his legs long and lacing his fingers behind his head, a smug expression gracing his features.

Draco rolled his eyes.

"Draco, Draco… you think you can just toss me some vague scrap of information and I'll just spill my guts?"

"You could start by telling me where you were."

"You suddenly seem to care an _awful_ lot about my whereabouts… and I bet I know why, although it pains me to admit it. You're traveling down the road not taken, my friend, and it's a dark, tangled one."

"What—?"

"I bet you've been sitting here for the past three hours, just staring at that little ring of yours. And let me guess what it said— 'storeroom, sixth floor,' or something like that?"

Draco tried not to stare open-mouthed. _So he_ had _been with Granger._

"You haven't realized it, but you've made quite a habit of looking at that ring when you think no one's looking— and I thought your little Occlumency lessons with auntie were going _well_?"

Draco glared at Theo, thankful Snape had cast a silencing spell.

"You know what I think, Draco? I think you wouldn't give a dragon's tit where I was all night if you didn't think I'd been somewhere with Granger."

"So what're you saying? Are you— are you fucking her or something?"

Theo threw his hands into the air in marked exasperation.

"You can't be serious, Malfoy! You nearly killed someone today, Merlin knows exactly why, you've got a disgusting tattoo on your arm that looks more like Voldemort's vomit than his Dark Mark— which, by the way, doesn't really say 'Death Eater and proud' to me— apparently you're failing at whatever you've been trying to fix for weeks now, you've got Snape harassing you and Voldemort breathing down your neck— Sissy's life is hanging in the balance… and all you can worry about is if I'm fucking Hermione Granger?!"

"Well— are you?"

"Yes."

Draco finished the last bit of firewhiskey without a word, then, without hesitation, he unceremoniously chucked the empty bottle at the wall. Theo threw his hands up to shield his face as the glass shattered into a thousand blackened pieces.

Theo couldn't believe his eyes. Voldemort be damned— there was a new threat to his friend's survival… and her name was Hermione freaking Granger.

"Of course I'm not bloody hooking up with Granger— but you're definitely as mad as she is!"

Draco made no attempt to clean the broken shards of glass, nor to breathe.

"We're just brewing a potion for that arsehole Slughorn."

Draco stared.

"Look— Draco— I know you think she's fit and everything—"

"The Mudblood? No— I don't." In truth, Draco wasn't sure _what_ he thought or felt about Granger.

_And I sure as hell don't want to find out,_ he thought.

"Right," Theo said sarcastically, scrutinizing his friend, more seriously worried for Draco's well-being than he'd ever been before.

"What potion?" Draco asked.

"Excuse me?"

"What potion are you and Granger making?" Draco asked again, impatiently.

"Draught of Living Death," replied Theo without hesitation. "Slughorn's idea. We couldn't say no, what with his little club—"

Draco didn't believe him, but Theo had said it so convincingly, even in his less-than-sober state, he couldn't be sure.

"Tomorrow you'll show me the cabinet," Theo interjected, clearing the shattered bottle of Ogden's with an uncoordinated flick of his wand.

Draco neither cared nor had the energy to argue.

_'_ _It doesn't hurt to have an ally.'_ His mother's words were the last thing he remembered before a sudden, blinding pain split his skull in two.

/

_Rage. Voldemort was enraged… with him, his failure. Draco could feel the emotion coursing through him, as if it were his own._

_"_ _I know you have failed me, Draco," Voldemort whispered icily, from inside Draco's own mind. The room was dark, but Voldemort's eyes flashed red._

_"_ _Please, My Lord— the boy, he works diligently to serve you," Draco heard his aunt Bellatrix grovel._

_"_ _Quiet, Bellatrix! Narcissa, my dear… what do you think of your only child's performance, or glaring lack thereof?"_

_"_ _It seems his plan did not go as expected, My Lord, but Bellatrix is right, he fights for you, to serve you. My son will not not give up until he has succeeded."_

_"_ _The words of a desperate mother, I think. You have both vouched for him, and Severus, too insists the boy is capable… but I am beginning to doubt Draco's— abilities. I do hope he doesn't take after his father."_

_"_ _He will do as he is tasked, My Lord. As Severus said—he just requires time—" his mother said evenly._

_"_ _Time!" Voldemort seethed. "I have waited long enough! The time is_ now _."_

_Through the vision, Draco saw with pride that his mother's resolute expression did not waver._

_"_ _How might I impress upon young Draco the urgency of his task? the seriousness of my command?"_

_The question was rhetorical._

_"_ _You must do as you see fit, my Lord."_

_Voldemort grinned maniacally._

_"_ _Sissy!" Bellatrix whispered frantically._

_"_ _Silence!"_

_Bellatrix cowered as his mother stood before Voldemort, undaunted._

_"_ _A mother's love," Voldemort said with disdain. "A woman's greatest weakness… Crucio."_

_Draco watched in horror, immobilized, unable to wake from this nightmare— this reality— Voldemort was projecting into his mind— as his mother writhed and screamed in agony upon the stone floor of her own home._

_"_ _NO!" He screamed, his lungs aching, but there was no sound._

_"_ _Do not fail me again, Draco. Next time, I will not be as forgiving. Crucio!"_

_"_ _Draco—!" He heard his mother called his name…_

Draco's eyes snapped open, and he jumped to his feet, wand in hand, ignoring the horrible agony in his arm, his body pulsating with a combination of rage and adrenaline and desperation. He was not a man with nothing to lose— he had to save her. He headed straight for the Common Room's exit.

"I have to go—!" Draco shouted, but Theo held him back.

"Draco— what— what happened?"

"Voldemort— he— he's torturing her!"

Theo's eyes widened in alarm, but he did not relent.

"How do you—?"

"Legilimency— or the Mark— I don't know, and I don't care— get out of my way, Nott!" Draco pushed against Theo's hold.

"There's nothing you can—"

"He's at the Manor again, Theo—" Draco felt his energy rapidly depleting. He took a step back.

Theo was better at hiding his shock this time, even as the cold grip of anger and undeniable fear chilled his spine. He sighed heavily.

"There's nothing we can do— not right now."

Draco blinked at the stone wall separating the Common Room from the dungeon hallway beyond. He wasn't sure how long he'd been on the floor paralyzed by Voldemort, but he was sure Snape's muffling spell must be wearing off by now, if it hadn't already.

He ran his hand through his hair and found his forehead was covered in sweat.

"Tomorrow— er, today," Theo said, realizing it must be nearly dawn. "The cabinet."

/

A/N: Thank you for reading!


	20. Map and Lineage

/

/

"Draco—!" Hermione gasped, semi-conscious in the dim blue light of pre-dawn inching its way into her four-poster bed.

Her whole body ached and her left forearm seared with pain as if she'd been burned. She looked down to see her arm was perfectly fine, however, her bare skin unmarred. She involuntarily rubbed at her collarbone; the necklace was cool on her fingertips.

Hermione reasoned she must've had a nightmare, but she couldn't remember what. She wondered why she'd said his name; she blamed it on the Ogden's.

She had barely slept at all, and, knowing further attempts at rest would be futile, she readied herself and made her way to the Common Room, which still empty save for the frolicking flame of a fire now roaring in the hearth.

Hermione idly rubbed at her arm again, which now tingled with the ghost of the pain she'd felt when she'd woken… or at least, the pain she _thought_ she'd felt.

_It was just a dream,_ she told herself.

She waited over an hour for Harry and Ron, her eyes lighting up expectantly at the rare early-riser who ambled sleepily down the stairs, but Harry and Ron never came.

Sighing, she decided she could wait no longer. Luckily, as it was early for a Sunday, the Common Room was still relatively deserted. She quickly checked to be sure she wouldn't be seen, then bounded up the stairs to the boys' dormitory.

She crept stealthily into the room where the sixth-year Gryffindor boys were still sleeping, the familiar rumble of Ron's snore echoing through the room despite his tightly drawn curtains.

Hermione walked slowly and silently to Harry's bedside and parted the curtains. Inside, she saw her best friend was asleep on his back, his wand and glasses propped on the pillow beside him, his black hair about as messy as she'd ever seen it.

She smiled; it'd been a long time since she'd seen him this way, free from worry and pain, and wished life would afford him more moments of peace.

Hermione sat down on the bed beside him as slowly and quietly as she could manage; he did not stir.

Hermione contemplated the best way to wake him; it seemed Harry was always on high alert these days, and she had no desire to wake the other boys in the room, nor to alert them to her presence.

Luckily, the bed curtains and Ron's snores gave her some cover.

Deciding to waste no more time, she whispered, "Harry— Harry, wake up."

She saw him begin to rouse slightly, and, panicking, put her hand over his mouth.

"Harry— it's just me—" she whispered as his eyes darted open. He brought both of his own hands to hers in an attempt to push her away, but it took only a moment for him to recognize her, however, and he relaxed.

Hermione couldn't help but notice he kept her hand clasped between both of his as she slowly moved her hand away from his mouth.

"Hermione— what—?" He whispered, his eyes still wide and searching.

"Everything's okay— I just could't wait— where's your map?"

He released her hand and pushed himself into a seated position.

"Where're my glasses?" He whispered.

"Here," she said quietly as she slid them on his face.

Harry ran his hands through his hair, as if suddenly self-conscious about his appearance.

She laughed quietly, "You're fighting a losing battle. Believe me— I know when to quit." She gestured to a curly lock of her own hair.

"I like your hair," Harry said as he gently held a bit of it between his fingertips. She sucked in a breath as their eyes met.

"The map—" Harry said quietly, shaking his head, as if he'd just woken from a dream.

He crawled to the foot of the bed and poked his head and shoulders out of the curtain, Hermione assumed to reach into his trunk at the foot of his bed. He returned a moment later, the Marauder's Map in hand as expected.

"We need to start keeping a closer eye on Malfoy," Hermione explained as Harry unfolded the map onto the bed.

He looked confused for a moment.

"But I thought you didn't think Malfoy was behind the attack?"

"I said I wasn't sure. There's no proof, Harry, especially none solid enough for McGonagall's ears. We need _proof_. Hence, the map."

She saw his expression soften, and then he grinned, "You're right. Why didn't we think to use the map sooner?"

"Look— Malfoy's still in the Slytherin dorms. Nott too."

Hermione tried not to think about the night before, not while she was sitting so close to Harry… in his bed. She suddenly couldn't help but imagine Malfoy, asleep is his own bed, draped not in red and gold but silver and green, his features irritatingly poised yet striking, even in slumber.

She shook her head.

"As _most_ people are at this hour on a Sunday, Hermione, y'know, asleep…" he smirked.

"I couldn't sleep."

"I couldn't tell," he whispered sarcastically. "What if I'd been naked in here or something?"

"You don't sleep in the nude," she said, matter-of-factly.

"What if I'd decided to try it out?"

"I'm sure I've seen worse," she joked, only now noting how endearing it was to see him in his t-shirt and cotton shorts; he seemed more vulnerable somehow, younger. "I mean, I've seen Ron vomit slugs."

"Thanks," Harry said dryly, but with an amused grin.

Or maybe it was just a reflection of how she felt there with Harry in his quiet four-poster, shut out from the rest of the world, from the Prince, from Felix Felicis, Malfoy, and the war; it was just the two of them, just she and Harry, not the Chosen One and his Muggle-born best friend.

But Hermione knew that wasn't realistic; it was silly, unfair— and dangerous— even to pretend to ignore these things.

She scoffed inwardly at her own hypocrisy— hadn't _she_ been the one in Madam Malkin's telling Ron and Harry to ignore Malfoy? Now she was the one obsessing over him.

"Did you really go to the library last night, Hermione? Ron and I waited up for you."

"Yes, I got permission from Madam Pince to stay late. Doesn't hurt that I'm a prefect." She was surprised how easily the lie came to her, how steady the tone of her voice, but she couldn't deny the pang of guilt now nagging at her insides. She felt rather like _she_ was the one about to vomit slugs.

Hermione just wasn't ready to tell Harry and Ron about Theo and Felix… and certainly not about the Veritaserum. Truthfully, she wasn't sure she'd ever tell them.

Harry nodded, but she could see the skepticism in his expression.

_This is_ Harry _you're talking to, not Ron,_ she reminded herself. _He's going to figure it out eventually._

"I was worried," Harry said quietly, and Hermione noted he was unable to meet her eyes.

"Thanks," she assured, "but you don't have to worry, Harry, everything's okay." She placed her hand over his for good measure. The sensation was warm, and familiar, and strong… like him, like their friendship.

"Everything won't be okay if Ron finds us like this though," Harry said after a moment, worriedly glancing at his bed curtains, as if Ron could see through them.

"Meet me in the Common Room?" Hermione whispered as she moved to leave.

"Wait—" he whispered back, and half his body again disappeared through the curtains. He returned with the Invisibility Cloak.

"Take this," he offered.

"Thanks," she smiled in gratitude. It _was_ a good idea; there were probably a lot more people awake now, and she grimaced at the thought of the trouble that would surely follow if anyone saw her leaving the boys' dormitories.

"And Hermione—" Harry said, "you can wake me up anytime, y'know, if—"

"I know," she said as she disappeared under the Cloak.

_/_

A few hours later, most of Gryffindor had made their way to the Great Hall for Sunday breakfast, affording Harry and Hermione the privacy to unfold the map in a corner of the common room, free from prying eyes.

"What the—?" Harry said.

"What is it?" Hermione asked in concern. "Is it Malfoy?"

"No, the opposite. Malfoy and Nott— they're not on here."

"That can't be. The map shows everyone."

"I'm telling you, it's like they've disappeared. There's Goyle over there— and Zabini and Crabbe in the Great Hall… or does that say Cormac…?"

"Let me see," Hermione insisted, pulling the map toward her. It was difficult to make out names on the map at times, particularly in a crowded area like the Great Hall during Sunday breakfast.

_Plus,_ she reasoned, _Harry's eyesight is atrocious._

But it turned out Harry was right, Malfoy and Nott were nowhere to be found… or at least, nowhere they could see on the map at the moment. Hermione sat back in her chair, frustrated.

"Could they have left the castle?" Harry asked.

"I don't think so…"

_It's possible though,_ she thought, _but after yesterday… highly unlikely._ She imagined Nott was in a world of pain this morning, after washing down Veritaserum with a bottle of Odgen's.

"I know they say evil never sleeps, but y'know, even that git Malfoy has to sleep sometime."

Harry and Hermione jumped in surprise, and more than a bit of guilt, as Ron appeared behind them, rumpled from sleep, and looking annoyed.

"You two are mental. I'm going to the Great Hall before Neville and Seamus eat all the sausage. You two can join me… but the second I hear the name _Malfoy—_ well, I'm too hungry to decide what I'll do, but I promise, you won't like it."

/

/

/

/

/

"I've been thinking—" Theo said as he and Draco made their way toward the Great Hall for a late breakfast.

"Let me owl the Minister— better yet, the _Prophet_ , or that hag, Bathilda Bagshot— this one's for the history books—" Draco interrupted.

" _Someone's_ eaten their Doxy eggs this morning—"

"What epiphany do I have the pleasure of hearing this morning, Nott?" Draco sighed. "It wasn't enough that I showed you the bloody cabinet?"

Earlier that morning, Draco and Theo had made their way to the Room of Hidden Things, dragging a Polyjuiced Goyle along with them to keep watch. Draco had also had to drag Theo, who had been wholly unfocused once inside the room, fascinated by the sheer amount and variety of goods stored between its cavernous walls.

It turned out Theo had heard of Vanishing Cabinets, but had about as much idea how to fix them as Draco.

"It's old magic, I know that," Theo had explained, "Like Portkeys and Floo Powder. I'll start there with my research."

_It's something,_ Draco had figured as they'd left the room, shooing a freshly memory-wiped Goyle into a bathroom until the Polyjuice wore off. _And something's better than nothing,_ Draco reasoned, which was all he'd been able to manage on his own.

"Hear me out… I've been thinking you should just hook up with Parkinson— actually, why not Greengrass—"

_Grass… freshly mowed, like the garden at home…_ the words echoed automatically in Draco's mind, but as he remembered they'd been Granger's words when she'd smelled the Amortentia, he felt rather like he could use a punch square in the face.

"—knowing Parkinson, you'd end up with a little Draco Junior crawling around the common room this time next year," Nott continued.

The image made Draco want to jump off the Astronomy Tower.

"I really don't have the energy to kill you this morning, Nott— didn't Ogden punish you enough? Also, should I even bother to ask why the hell you've been thinking about me _hooking up_ with anyone? You know what— no, forget that part. I don't want to know."

"Think about it Malfoy, y'know— Greengrass… maybe her grass _is_ greener after all? She'd give you a chance to get it out of your system, at least."

"Get _what_ out of my system?" Draco asked, thinking he'd prefer to spend a whole day failing to mend the cabinet than listen to another second of 'Theo's Theories.' Plus, Draco felt that Greengrass was only slightly less deplorable than Parkinson.

"Your— I don't know— whatever it is— with Granger."

"I'm not the one spending all my time brewing a lousy potion with her and falling over myself to give her my seat at Slughorn's dinners—"

"That's just typical Theo behavior," Theo explained plainly. "Chivalry, and whatnot."

"Speaking of typical Theo behavior, you never told me how you got that Ogden's. How'd you manage to smuggle it from the Estate? Sprock?"

"Draco, my friend, how short your memory is! Don't you remember— you asked me where I'd been last night _and_ where I got the firewhiskey— two questions, one answer."

"Save me the Ravenclaw riddles, Theo. This isn't the fucking _Tales of Beedle_ —" Draco stopped dead in his tracks as he realized the single answer to his different questions.

"You can't be serious— _Granger_ got you that Ogden's?"

"I never drink and tell…"

"Impossible. I don't believe you."

_She'd never be that much fun,_ Draco thought.

"I hate to say it, especially because I'm trying to stop you from traveling any further down your dark and dangerous path… but the mudblood's growing on me. First she gets you pinned at wand-point, then she Confunds that arsehole McLaggen, and now she's taking shots of Ogden's straight from the bottle—"

"Seems like _you've_ got something to get out of your system," Draco replied sarcastically.

"No, no— Granger and I could never be— battle of the brains and all that— we'd spend hours debating the Principal Exceptions of Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration—"

"Don't you psychos get off on that sort of thing?" Draco asked.

"Well, now that you mention it…"

"You disgust me."

Theo laughed out loud, "Can't handle a bit of fun this morning, Draco? Or is the thought of me and Granger together just clouding your vision?"

"I—" Draco sputtered.

"Enough about Potter's girlfriend—" Theo interrupted.

"Potter's g—"

"Granger's got her admirable qualities, to be sure, but she's not my type… although I'm not sure what my type is really," Theo continued nonchalantly, ignoring Draco's agitation.

"Seriously, Nott—? _Greengrass?_ That vapid, empty sack of skin and hair people actually refer to as a person?" Draco grimaced. "I take it back, you don't disgust me, you _revolt_ me… you make the image of Hagrid snogging a blast-ended skrewt seem like a masterpiece—"

"And here I was thinking you had no artistic vision— but yes, _Greengrass_. Vapid. Brainless. Empty sack. I'm glad you seem to be getting it— she seems perfect for a shag, no strings attached," Theo explained as they found their seats at the Slytherin table.

Knowing Theo was watching him, Draco did his best to avoid glancing over at the Gryffindor table, a habit he only now realized he'd formed.

"No. Some of us have standards, you know."

"Sissy would be so proud of you for protecting the Malfoy and Black lineage… didn't realize she was so accepting of Muggle-borns, though. Guess you learn something new every day."

/

/

A/N: I hope you're enjoying Dramione's development. Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	21. Lessons

/

Hermione listened with keen interest as Harry detailed his most recent meeting with Dumbledore to her and Ron as they made their way through the damp, misty grounds on their way to Herbology.

"I think it's fascinating," she said as they found their spot in the greenhouse. "It makes absolute sense to know as much about Voldemort as possible. How else will you find out his weaknesses?"

"So how was Slughorn's latest party?" Harry asked, clearly intent on changing the subject.

"It was better without Malfoy and Nott there," she shrugged, putting on protective goggles. "I mean, he droned on about his famous exploits a bit, as usual, and McLaggen never left me alone…"

 _On second thought, I would've preferred Malfoy and Nott to McLaggen,_ Hermione thought, all but shoving her hands right _through_ her gardening gloves at the memory of McLaggen's ceaselessly wandering eyes.

"…but I suppose it was interesting to meet Gwenog Jones."

"McLaggen?" Harry asked with narrowed eyes, as if she had not just mentioned the name of a famous Quidditch player.

"Who cares about that git— you met Gwenog Jones?" Interjected Ron, his eyes widening under his own goggles. " _The_ Gwenog Jones? Captain of the Holyhead Harpies?"

"But what did you say about McLaggen never leaving you alone—?" Harry's scowl deepened.

"Quite enough chat over here!" said Professor Sprout briskly, bustling over and looking stern. "You're lagging behind, everybody else has started, and Neville's already got his first pod!"

Hermione looked around; sure enough, there sat Neville with a bloody lip and several nasty scratches along the side of his face, but grinning as he examined an unpleasantly pulsating green object about the size of a grapefruit clutched in his fist.

Hermione noted that she felt as though she'd barely spoken to Neville all term, but she'd managed to spend enough time around Ginny to know that he was missing the D.A., but doing well. From their conversations, she also knew Ginny was spending more time with Neville— their friendship continued to grow even though the D.A. was no longer meeting, and Hermione was glad for it. She wondered if perhaps there was something more growing between them. Ginny and Dean were both wonderful people, but the frequency of their couples' spats was no secret to anyone.

"Okay, Professor, we're starting now!" said Ron, adding quietly, when she had turned away again, "Should've used Muffliato, Harry."

Hermione sighed, her thoughts of Neville and Ginny suddenly forgotten at the mention of one of the Prince's spells. "I won't deny it's a clever spell, but Harry, you promised…"

"I'm being more careful, Hermione. This spell had a description written right next to it— you saw it…"

"Come on you two," Ron sighed, eyeing Neville's bloody lip wearily. "We'd better get going..."

She gave the other two an apprehensive look; they all took deep breaths and then dived at the gnarled stump between them.

It sprang to life at once; long, prickly, bramble-like vines flew out of the top and whipped through the air. One tangled itself in her hair, and Ron beat it back with a pair of secateurs; Harry succeeded in trapping a couple of vines and knotting them together; a hole opened in the middle of all the tentacle-like branches; Hermione plunged her arm bravely into this hole, which closed like a trap around her elbow; Harry and Ron tugged and wrenched at the vines, forcing the hole to open again, and she snatched her arm free, clutching in her fingers a pod just like Neville's. At once, the prickly vines shot back inside, and the gnarled stump sat there looking like an innocently dead lump of wood.

She regarded the slimy pod with grim satisfaction.

"You know, I don't think I'll be having any of these in my garden when I've got my own place," said Ron, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead and wiping sweat from his face.

The thought of her life after Hogwarts seemed like a farfetched dream… she'd certainly given it more thought when she'd been a bit younger, but after Voldemort's return, she found herself wondering less about things like what job she might have and where she might live— these things seemed almost inconsequential, unimportant now. These questions were replaced with new ones: would she _have_ a life after Hogwarts— after the war? And if she did survive, what kind of life would it be, what kind of world? And who would still be there beside her?

She glanced at Harry. These were questions she did not like to dwell upon, and yet they remained.

"Pass me a bowl," she said, ignoring Ron and trying not to think too much about their gray, uncertain future, especially Harry's, a life that seemed inexplicably tied up with Voldemort's.

She wanted nothing more than to be done with the task at hand as she held the pulsating pod at arm's length. Thankfully, Harry handed over a bowl and she dropped the pod into it with disgust.

"Don't be squeamish, squeeze it out, they're best when they're fresh!" called Professor Sprout.

"Anyway," she said as though a lump of wood had not just attacked them and she had not just questioned the likelihood of her continued existence, "Slughorn's going to have a Christmas party, Harry, and there's no way you'll be able to wriggle out of this one because he actually asked me to check your free evenings, so he could be sure to have it on a night you can come."

Harry groaned.

"'Slug Club,' it's pathetic," spat Ron. "Planning to hook up with McLaggen, Hermione? Then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug—" Ron said with a sneer worthy of Malfoy as he attempted to burst the pod in the bowl by putting both hands on it, standing up, and squashing it as hard as he could.

He sighed with dramatic exasperation, and not because of the pod's stubbornness.

Hermione seethed, rather wishing she could squash _Ron_ at the moment. _If only he knew what I did to McLaggen… and for_ his _benefit too._

"What the hell, Ron? McLaggen—?" Harry asked, looking enraged as he seized the bowl that contained the pod and began to try and open it by the most violent means he could think of.

"You wouldn't, Hermione…?" Harry asked, his voice suddenly unsure.

"Hand that over, Harry," she commanded hurriedly. "It says we're supposed to puncture them with something sharp… and McLaggen? _Seriously?_ "

_I'd rather go with Malfoy._

"Do you two even know me at all?"

"Sorry," Harry and Ron mumbled in unison.

"So we'll go together right, Harry?" She added hopefully, wishing to avoid any more mention of McLaggen.

 _Maybe going with Harry will keep McLaggen away for good,_ she considered hopefully. Then she remembered the disgusting, hungry look in his deplorable expression the last time she'd been in the same room with him.

_Probably not._

"You want to go— together?" Harry asked in surprise, and Hermione noticed he didn't meet her eye.

Ron sighed heavily, his expression one of utter exasperation. "Look, I'm all for you two going together, but would you please just tell me what in Merlin is _going on_ between you two?"

 _Your guess is as good as mine,_ Hermione thought, her brows furrowing.

Harry sputtered.

"Unbelievable," Ron muttered. "Give Hermione the pod, mate," Ron added in defeat.

Without muttering a word, Harry passed her the pod in the bowl as instructed, and then Ron proceeded to nudge him forcefully in the ribs, successfully reorienting Harry with a jolt.

She returned her own attentions to the pod they had yet to burst.

Despite her discomfort at the topic (and the task) at hand, Hermione smiled at Harry's reaction before he and Ron both snapped their goggles back over their eyes and dived, once more, for the stump.

She knew Ron was right, there _was_ something going on between her and Harry, but she wasn't sure what, and she sure as Merlin didn't want to talk about it as they battled a raging stump… or _ever_ , for that matter.

Hermione felt she was facing the changes in her life head on, or at the very least, she was managing to stay on her own two feet… but she wasn't sure she was prepared for any shift in the dynamic of her relationship with her two best friends.

She wondered where it would lead them, and where it might _leave_ Ron if something…. more— was to develop between her and Harry. Only now did she allow herself to consider this particular question.

She shook her head— it seemed… wrong.

"Gotcha!" yelled Ron, pulling a second pod from the stump just as she managed to burst the first one open, so that the bowl was full of tubers wriggling like pale green worms. She tried not to look too close.

"So you'll come to Slughorn's party with me, Harry?" Hermione asked again as they made their way back toward the castle after class, glad to leave stumps and pods behind them.

Whatever awkwardness they'd experienced in class was nothing compared to the dread of facing McLaggen without backup.

Ron shot Harry a pointed look, which Harry missed, but was not lost on Hermione.

"Course, Hermione," Harry replied easily this time, grinning broadly. "Er— and thanks for asking me."

Ron threw his hands up with a grunt of exasperation and marched his way into the Great Hall for lunch, Harry and Hermione trailing behind, both grinning at Ron's consternation.

/

From the time they were young children, Andromeda's older sister, Bellatrix, had always been a loose cannon, not unlike their mother— impulsive, reckless, and emotional. She'd always worn her feelings, as sudden and changeable as they were, on her sleeve.

Andromeda had been quite the opposite— bookish, rational to a fault, and measured— perhaps in part _because_ Bellatrix had wielded her power— and her personality— so unforgivingly, and, more accurately, _cruelly_. Andromeda had learned very quickly to hide her emotions and opinions, whether agreeable or otherwise, lest Bellatrix or their own mother prey on them.

Narcissa, the youngest of the three, their mother's favorite, had always been the most reserved and the most fair, in both appearance and personality; looking back, Andromeda could now see these traits had certainly contributed to the relative cooperation she supposed she and Bellatrix continued to share, the cooperation Andromeda herself had failed to achieve.

In many ways, Andromeda had inadvertently taught herself Occlumency as a child, then honed her skill as an adolescent, eventually learning all she could about both Occlumency and Legilimency during her time at Hogwarts. She'd taught Narcissa Occlumency too, for a time… but by the time Narcissa entered Hogwarts, Andromeda had already forged her own path, one that did not include the most ancient and noble house of Black.

Andromeda knew that she and Bellatrix had essentially forced Narcissa to choose between them, and even then Andomeda recognized it had left the young Narcissa conflicted… she too did not deny her own conflict that still remained after all these years, a conflict which had resurfaced with a vengeance the day Snape had given her Narcissa's letter.

Draco was very much a Malfoy in physical appearance, but as their Occlumency lessons progressed, Andromeda saw he was more like his mother than she'd ever expected. A natural aptitude for Occlumency had revealed itself immediately, much like it had with Narcissa so long ago, and Andromeda soon recognized Draco's own conflict… along with a stubbornness she felt was matched only by her own.

"You're doing well, Draco," Andromeda said, unsure when she had begun referring to her nephew by his first name.

"Let's keep going," Draco replied, rubbing his eyes in a poor attempt to hide his exhaustion.

"I can begin delving deeper, and non-verbally… but you should rest—"

"No— I mean— I'm fine, professor. I want to continue."

Andromeda couldn't help but feel oddly proud.

"Prepare yourself," she commanded quietly.

Draco nodded.

She breathed deeply; she would not go easy on him, it would do him no favors, not in Voldemort's presence.

 _'Legilimens'_ she thought, and she felt the power of her mind pierce the barrier surrounding Draco's thoughts.

Images flashed in rapid succession, but all was pain and fear.

There was so much pain… Draco was very young, and there was the burning ache of the strike of Lucius' cane upon his back after he'd failed to perform a the killing curse on a wild ferret in the garden… the image changed and Draco was a little older, and Lucius too, a favorite broom cast aflame with the flick of his father's wand…

 _'_ _Come on, Draco,'_ Andromeda projected encouragingly, but then Voldemort's wand was outstretched, searing a Dark Mark into Draco's arm, burning and bloody… the scene changed again and Draco's ashen face was reflected in a mirror, raw fear coursing through his veins… the images transformed as Andromeda heard an icy command of 'Crucio!' and Narcissa was screaming, laid to waste on a stone floor…

Finally, Andromeda could feel Draco successfully pushing back; she wasn't sure the last time she'd felt so relieved.

She pulled away, bracing herself against her desk and saw that Draco had fallen to his knees.

All these weeks, she'd made sure never to question what she saw inside Draco's mind, despite her desire to do so. Her Healer training was kicking in again now; she wanted to talk to Draco, to help him unpack his own memories and emotion and pain… but as she outstretched her hand to help him up— as she would her own daughter— she understood her desire to help him was much deeper than a mere side-effect of her profession.

The student, Katie Bell, was still at St. Mungo's— stable, but unconscious. She rather suspected Draco had something to do with the girl's curse, but she would never say so, particularly not directly to Draco.

Andromeda knew she had to make sure he could trust her; as Snape had informed her, it was the only way to help him… to help Narcissa.

"Again—" he panted, shaking his head at the sight of her outstretched hand.

"No."

Draco looked up, his light gray eyes fierce and willful. He was her sister's son— he was _her_ nephew.

"I can do it."

 _'_ _Legilimens'_ she thought again, this time, without warning.

Draco and a young Theodore Nott were running through a hedge maze, roaring with laughter… then Narcissa's smile flooded into view, her arms wrapped firmly around a very young Draco, as she read from the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ …

Andromeda could feel Draco's effort's weaken, but she considered perhaps she was unwittingly urging forward with increased strength at the sight of her sister's smile.

The image shifted, and there was a large cabinet in a shop, and a girl— Andromeda recognized her student, Hermione Granger— and Draco was placing jewelry around her neck… She felt Draco's conflict, his surprise at his own desire, and the scene transformed again as Miss Granger reappeared in Slughorn's office, a scar near her collarbone swimming into view… Andromeda felt Draco pushing back at last— but she would not relent so quickly this time.

She had to push him to his limits… he had to be prepared.

Another image materialized… a smooth metal ring with an inscription on the inside… there was Draco's desire and fear again— but this time, it was fear _for_ someone else… and there was surely something more, so much more, but it was getting increasingly difficult for Andromeda to continue as Draco worked more forcefully to clear his mind.

But continue she did, as Voldemort surely would.

The scene transformed yet again and she saw her own classroom; Draco listening to Miss Granger saying softly, '"Try imagining what it will look like _after_ it's been healed,"' and then there were brown eyes staring back at Draco as she felt her nephew give a final push.

"Well done," Andromeda said after retreating, breathing heavily from the prolonged effort. It had been many years since she'd used her powers so forcefully.

Draco had fallen on all fours, his body shaking violently.

Andromeda had noticed tension between Draco and Hermione in her class, but she'd chalked it up to nothing more than a rivalry between a pureblood and a Muggle-born, a Slytherin and a Gryffindor. When she had paired them in her class, she never imagined the depths of their tension, nor the complications of their relationship. She wondered how much of this Draco realized himself.

She did not pity Draco, still on the floor of her office, but only wished she could help him. It would be naive to think that Occlumency alone would be enough to protect him from harm.

_He's so young… and war always seems to damage the young most of all._

"Well— done—?" he panted, his voice shaking. "But you saw— _everything—"_ He didn't look up, but Andromeda could tell his face was streaked with the tears he'd failed to hold back.

"Yes, Draco. You did well. You were exhausted, but you didn't give in."

She motioned to help him to his feet, and he reluctantly obliged at last. As he stood weakly, leaning against her desk for support, unable to meet her gaze, Andromeda examined his gaunt, ashen face more closely. He looked like he hadn't slept or eaten in a week.

"Let me give you some Sleeping Draught—"

"No!" He shouted, and she staggered backwards in alarm. His eyes were wide for a moment, but then softened as he realized how he'd reacted.

"You need—"

"No— no thank you, professor," he interrupted haggardly.

She felt every urge to argue, but Severus' warnings echoed through her mind. Draco needed their help, and this was the only way.

She nodded silently.

"Same time tomorrow?" Andromeda asked, and Draco nodded, hastily wiping at his eyes and face, his defenses already rebuilding themselves.

He turned to leave, but Andromeda needed to know.

"Your mother— is she—?"

Draco turned to face her and she recognized surprise on his face, even through the stony expression he'd managed to reinvigorate. She wondered if her expression betrayed her own fear and concern.

"She's alive," he said simply.

Andromeda nodded resolutely. _He's learning_ too _quickly._

"And Draco—" she said as he turned to leave again. "I meant what I said before. I don't deny the importance of family, but there is something to be said for forging your own path… and for following your own heart."

/

/

A/N: I really enjoyed developing Draco and Andromeda's relationship, but I worry I might've rushed it a bit. Anyway, thank you for reading!


	22. Barmy

/

"Hermione, I got a letter from my dad," Ron said over his uncharacteristically empty plate the morning of Gryffindor's first Quidditch match of the season. Hermione knew Ron's nerves had been getting the better of him the last few weeks; on more than a few occasions Harry had mentioned— correction, _complained_ — that their red-headed friend was turning practices into routine nightmares for the whole team. Hermione recalled Ginny had also had a few rather choice words concerning her brother's behavior.

Despite Harry's prolonged encouragement, Ron looked rather green this morning.

"He said Bill will be home for Christmas, he can look at your necklace then."

Hermione frowned, handing the unread letter back to Ron.

"I thought I told you, Ron, I'm staying here for the holiday."

"I still don't understand why you're not going home, or why you won't at least come to the Burrow for Christmas," Harry said, diverting his concern from Ron to her for a moment.

"I'd love to come, really," Hermione lied, at least partially.

Felix Felicis was reaching a critical stage, and she wasn't about to leave it in Nott's hands. More significantly, her fears concerning returning home to her parents were overwhelming.

Hermione had at last decided on a plan for their safety, a plan she dreaded, and she didn't know how she could face them when she knew their days together were numbered.

"But I just can't— I need the time to try to get ahead of the work for next term—"

"But there _isn't_ any work over term," Harry said, loading Ron's plate with toast and attempting to maneuver a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Ron looked as though he were fighting the urge to throw up.

"Everything in class is ongoing though, you know that, Harry— oh, Ron, please, Harry's right, you should try to eat something!"

"Cheer up, Ron!" Called Lavender from a few seats down the Gryffindor table. "I know you'll be brilliant!"

Ron ignored her. Hermione shot Harry a nervous glance, thinking Ron's lackluster response to Lavender's attention did not bode well for Gryffindor. Harry's expression told her he was thinking much the same.

"Tea?" Harry asked him in a tone that reminded Hermione very much of Molly Weasley. "Coffee? Pumpkin juice?"

"Anything," said Ron glumly, at last taking a— undeniably moody— bite of toast.

"Here—" Harry offered, shoving a glass of pumpkin juice in Ron's sullen face.

To Hermione's disbelief, she could have sworn she spotted Harry drop something into the glass… something from a small, golden vial.

"There you go, Ron. Drink up."

_No… it couldn't be._ It was totally illegal to use it during a competition like Quidditch, but surely, Hermione hoped, Harry wouldn't use his liquid luck for _this…_ not when there were so many more important things…

_That's why you're making more, remember?_ Her inner voice reminded her, as if she could forget the weeks she'd spent toiling in a boiling hot room that was no larger than a broom closet with Theodore Nott.

Ron raised the glass to his lips, and she couldn't help but speak up.

"Don't drink that, Ron!"

Both Harry and Ron looked up at her; Ron in alarm, and Harry in consternation.

"Why not?" Ron asked.

Hermione stared at Harry in disbelief, but he didn't even blink.

"You just put something in that drink."

"Excuse me?" Harry said innocently.

_What is he playing at?_

"You heard me. I saw you. You just tipped something into Ron's drink. You've got the bottle in your hand right now!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, stowing the little bottle hastily in his pocket.

"Ron, I warn you, don't drink it!" She said again, alarmed.

But Ron picked up the glass, drained it in one gulp, and said, "Stop bossing me around, Hermione."

"Clear, sunny day today, Ron, ideal conditions," Harry said with exaggerated enthusiasm as he pointed up at the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling. "Must be our _lucky_ day."

Hermione sighed.

Ron's eyes widened as understanding dawned on him. "I... you..." Ron had dropped his voice, he looked both scared and excited. "My drink ... my pumpkin juice... you didn't...?"

Hermione watched in irritation as Harry raised his eyebrows, but said nothing except, "We'll need to get going soon, better eat up!"

"Good luck today, Ronald," Luna announced airily as she walked by their spot at the table, her lion hat already roaring loudly.

"Luck, eh?" Ron announced coyly, now grinning broadly at Luna, "How about that!"

Hermione took the opportunity to whisper into Harry's ear. "Harry, I can't believe you'd use it for _Quidditch—_ what about Dumbledore, and… and Voldemort!?"

"Look who's talking," he whispered back. "Confund anyone lately?"

"That's—" she sputtered. She couldn't believe it, she didn't _want_ to believe it. "That's different."

Harry dismissively turned back to Ron, who was now talking animatedly with Luna. "Ready, mate?"

Hermione crossed her arms in anger and took out her Ancient Runes textbook, which was obtrusive enough to hide the Marauder's Map so she could look for Malfoy without anyone's notice.

She spotted the names Crabbe, Malfoy, and Nott up on the seventh floor nearly as soon as she'd opened the book.

_What are they doing up on the seventh…The Room of Requirement… of course!_ She thought excitedly as her heart began to race.

Suddenly, it all made sense; why it seemed Malfoy and Nott had disappeared from the map… all the times she and Harry had seen Crabbe and Goyle's names up on the seventh floor…

_Maybe I'm getting a bit of a cast from Ron's liquid luck…_ she thought hopefully, admitting she wasn't sure if the potion even worked that way.

She briefly considered telling Harry about her suspicions, but figured he'd hardly care at the moment.

_Plus,_ Hermione reasoned, _he'd never give up Quidditch for much of anything, especially Malfoy…_

Luckily, she had no such loyalty to the sport.

"I've got to go," Hermione announced as she r slammed her book closed, the map still tucked neatly inside.

"Wait— Hermione, where are—" Harry began to ask, but she had already rose from her seat.

"Good luck!" She called, Harry's indiscretion forgotten for the moment. "I'm going to go find a good spot in the stands!"

She made her way toward the Great Hall's large doors without any intention of attending the match.

/

After sprinting to retrieve Harry's Invisibility Cloak in Gryffindor Tower and running just as quickly to the seventh floor corridor, Hermione was bent over, gasping for breath.

From her spot down the hall, still under the Cloak, Hermione spotted a younger student shuffling her feet and looking up at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls to dance the ballet.

She checked the Map again, sans Runes book, to be sure. Like before, Malfoy and Nott had seemingly disappeared from the map, but Hermione noted right away that there was no second-year girl in the hall.

_It's Crabbe…_

Under different circumstances, the thought of Malfoy forcing Crabbe to drink Polyjuice only to transform into a twelve-year-old girl might've been comical, but Hermione was focused on more important things.

_What are they doing in there, and how am I supposed to get in with that oaf in the way?_

She vaguely wondered who would replace Malfoy on the Slytherin team for the match, now that it was obvious he was otherwise engaged.

Remembering Malfoy seemed about as talented a Seeker as Harry, Hermione considered it _was_ perhaps Ron's lucky day.

She resisted the urge to scoff out loud at Harry's use of Felix Felicis.

_Even Malfoy seems to have his priorities better sorted than Harry…_

She shook her head, arguing with herself. She was being silly; the tasks of a Death Eater were hardly things that should even need prioritizing in the first place, but Hermione couldn't help but wonder: _What exactly_ is _Malfoy prioritizing? And when did Nott start getting involved?_

She quietly lowered herself to the floor into a seated position as she tried to determine the best course of entry.

She sat for a time in a quiet alcove, and considered creating a distraction, or running to tell Filch that it seemed there was a student suspiciously lurking around on the seventh floor. But these options seemed rather weak.

She sighed in exasperation. _Maybe I should just stun him._

Hermione realized it actually wasn't such a bad idea.

_But then what will Crabbe tell Malfoy and Nott when the spell wears off?_ She wondered. _Someone invisible stunned him?_

Crabbe would certainly be confused, which Hermione admitted was not too out of the ogre's range of normalcy, but she knew better. Crabbe might be as daft as they came, but Malfoy and Nott certainly did not share this quality. Stupefying Crabbe (and Crabbe's subsequent explanation) would be a dead giveaway to Malfoy and Nott's sharpness; Malfoy knew Harry had an Invisibility Cloak, and he was suspicious of her enough already.

_Alter his memory,_ a voice in her mind whispered.

Hermione knew she would have to practice sooner or later— now that her plans had been made. She would need to be able to successfully perform such a spell on her parents in only a matter of months.

_Right,_ she thought to herself resolutely.

She silently approached the Polyjuiced Crabbe, who remained completely oblivious to her presence.

_It's almost_ too _easy._

"Stupefy," she whispered, aiming her wand. She did not want to risk the chance of a failed nonverbal spell.

Crabbe fell to the floor with a thud.

Based on her research of memory spells, she knew it'd be easier to just wipe his memory, but she also knew that could be somewhat of a giveaway when Malfoy and Nott undoubtedly questioned Crabbe later and he wasn't able to remember what had happened.

_Although, it's not out of the realm of possibility Crabbe would just forget,_ Hermione thought. _He's got the brains of a troll— no, actually, that's too kind… a stone._

She grinned, amused by her own thoughts.

Hermione aimed her wand again at the now-unconscious Crabbe and closed her eyes in concentration. She'd read it was best to base altered memories in reality, to use pieces of truth to shape a more convincing lie.

She'd bet ten galleons that Crabbe would much rather be at the Quidditch match right now than keep watch alone, disguised at a scrawny, twelve-year-old girl. She grimaced at the memory of the taste of Polyjuice.

Hermione took a deep breath.

"Memoriae muto," she whispered. She watched as the Polyjuiced Crabbe's eyes fluttered open, flashing white.

"You got bored and decided to go to the Quidditch match," she murmured, and the Polyjuiced Crabbe's eyes returned to a normal shade of dark brown before closing again.

She could only hope her spell had worked.

Hermione levitated the still-unconscious Crabbe to an empty classroom on the fifth floor. Luckily, the castle was mostly empty due to the match, and she wasn't seen.

She returned to the seventh floor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy.

_I need to see where Malfoy is hiding_ , she thought as she walked past the entrance to the Room of Requirement three times.

But nothing happened.

_It was worth a try,_ Hermione thought, knowing her first attempt was likely to fail. She considered she'd have to be as specific as possible for the room to reveal itself.

But even this knowledge was not enough, as Hermione met failure attempt after attempt. One hour passed, then two, and her frustration was close to boiling.

"What are you looking at?" She snapped at Barnabus the Barmy, surrounded by his uncoordinated tutu-clad trolls.

"And they call _me_ barmy," he replied.

/

"She's still out there," Draco said irritably, slipping his ring, the inside of which read 'Seventh fl. hall,' back on his finger.

"The match can't last forever—"

"Technically it could, and our odds are shite with Potter and Harper playing Seeker," Draco muttered.

"Well, Granger will give up eventually," Theo replied, wholly unconcerned, as he rhythmically tossed an apple into the air, catching it each time in the palm of one hand.

Draco shot his friend a highly skeptical look. "Are we talking about the same person? She's about as likely to give up as she is to suddenly take up a renewed interest in Divination."

Theo smirked at the memory of Granger's short stint in Divination. "Sounds like she's about as stubborn as you."

"Bloody Crabbe— I'm going to murder him," Draco threatened, ignoring Theo's comment. He did not like to consider the similarities he shared with Granger.

Draco and Theo had been in the Room of Hidden Things most of the morning, trying— and failing— to mend the Vanishing Cabinet. When they'd been ready to leave, Draco, as usual, changed the signal on one of his Protean coins— another of which he'd given to Crabbe— but Crabbe had never responded with the signal that told them they were in the clear to leave the room.

"He probably got bored and went to the match. You really know how to pick 'em, Draco. Quality henchmen you've got there."

"What does that say about you, Nott?"

Theo replied by chucking the apple at Draco's head, but Draco silently cast a severing charm as it soared mid-air, cutting it in two. He caught both halves of the fruit in each of his hands.

"Show off," Theo muttered as Draco tossed him one half of the apple, which Theo proceeded to eat.

"I bet Granger's stunned Crabbe and shoved him into a broom closet somewhere. But I want to know how she suddenly seems to know we're in here." Draco said, shooting a suspicious look Theo's way.

"Seriously? You think _I_ would tell her? I thought we'd moved past these little indiscretions."

"You're working with her on that potion all the time. Seems a bit unlikely she just _happened_ to figure it out all on her own, not long after I told you about the cabinet."

"Who knows how Granger knows the things she does? Plus," Theo said, finishing off his half of the apple and rising to his feet. "Did you even think she might _not_ be on to us? Maybe she's just trying to get into the room for herself."

Draco _had_ considered the possibility, and truthfully, he didn't think it wasn't all that farfetched, considering how often Hermione had used the room last year for Dumbledore's Army meetings.

He cringed at the memory, wondering for perhaps the thousandth time why he'd been so compelled to be a part of Umbridge's— that disgusting toad of a woman— Inquisitorial Squad.

_Because you're a fucking idiot,_ Theo's voice answered in his mind.

_Oh right,_ Draco thought without argument. _That's why._

But Draco knew it was a _bit_ more than his idiocy that had led him to the Inquisitorial Squad. He hated to admit it now, but his hatred— and jealousy— of Potter had led him to make incredibly ignorant decisions on more than one occasion. The Inquisitorial Squad was near the top of the list.

"I'm done sitting around," Theo announced. "This room is full of things people wanted hidden— think of the value… and the potential blackmail! I've had my eye on that smokey-looking orb that's over by the statue of Merlin…"

"Be my guest," Draco replied dryly, sharing no such interest.

"So you're just going to stand here staring at your ring until Granger leaves?"

Draco sighed in defeat and followed Theo.

They meandered through the room, passed heaps of broken and damaged furniture, towering stacks of books of every color and size, flying catapults, a huge mirror gilded with gold, a piano forte that looked about as old as the castle itself, countless fanged frisbees atop bookcases and tucked in dark and tangled crevices. They interrupted their exploration to engage in a spar with two rusty, bloodstained swords— a confrontation which Draco quickly lost, entirely distracted by the mental image of Granger in the hallway just on the other side of the wall.

"Did you feel that?" Theo asked abruptly, pausing mid-lunge.

Draco halted too, thinking perhaps Granger had found her way inside.

"Feel what?"

"Something feels… I'm not sure— wrong…"

"Welcome to my reality, Theo, so glad you finally made it."

Theo ignored Draco's snide remark and lowered his sword to search the area around him— he scanned stacks of books, a heap of broken chair legs, and a bust of an ugly warlock— his eyes never settling. He couldn't shake the abrupt sensation of menacing dread that had washed over him, like some sick sort of deja vu— not that he really believed in such things— but there was no denying he'd felt the sensation before…

_But where?_ Theo wondered. _And when?_

"Look," Draco interrupted, gesturing to the ring he'd removed from his finger, his own sword now abandoned on the floor. "I think she's leaving."

Draco moved toward the exit, leaving Theo standing alone with his ominous unease.

_Something's not right…_ Theo considered, a chill running down his spine.

"Are you coming, or what!?" Draco shouted from across the room.

Theo scanned his surroundings a final time, his scrutinizing gaze lingering for a moment on a gleaming tiara atop a pile of ratty wigs, before running to catch up with Draco.

/

/

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you're enjoying this fic. A special thank you to reviewers, I really appreciate you taking the time to share your thoughts on this story :)


	23. Set Free

/

Hermione huffed in frustration and threw the Invisibility Cloak back over herself; she could now hear the excited echoes of students re-entering the castle. Apparently, the match was over.

_Malfoy and Nott have to come out sometime,_ Hermione considered. _I can wait._

_And then what, Granger?_ A voice that sounded rather like Draco's asked inside her head. _Teach them the ballet?_

She knew Harry and Ron would be looking for her. _Or maybe they won't be,_ she sighed despondently, thinking of Harry's use of Felix Felicis, _after what happened at breakfast._

Sighing, she resigned herself to failure and made her way to Gryffindor Tower.

"Dilligrout," she said flatly to the Fat Lady, who was popping open a bottle of champagne with marked exuberance.

"To victory!" She announced, ignoring Hermione's less than cheerful expression. The portrait swung open and a wall of cheers and activity greeted Hermione. She did not feel at all like celebrating, but managed to muster a reluctant smile for her house, and for her two best friends, who she spotted at the center of the large group of celebratory Gryffindors.

"Hermione!" Harry called, spotting her only a moment after she entered the common room.

He ran to her through the crowd, he reached her he did not hesitate as he wrapped his arms around her and swung her in circles. She couldn't help but smile— genuinely now— at the sensation and Harry's palpable joy.

"Harry!" She exclaimed. "Congratulations!"

As he stopped and her feet touched the ground once more, their eyes met, and the moment was gone as quickly as it had arrived as a roar and a round of 'Weasley is Our King' reverberated through the room. They looked over to find Ron and Lavender in the center of the gathering, snogging with abandon.

Hermione grimaced at the sight, but found she was strangely happy for Ron. He'd been so nervous for the match, and so upset about being excluded from Slughorn's suppers… she admitted he'd probably deserved a little good luck.

"Guess it _was_ his lucky day," she said quietly to Harry, unable to hide her re-emerging frown.

"It was… but not because of Felix Felicis," Harry replied and she turned to him in confusion.

"C'mon," he said without explanation, taking her hand and leading her out of the portrait hole. Let's go… anywhere we don't have to witness that atrocity," Harry gestured to Ron and Lavender, who were still tangled up in one amorphous heap, rather like an enraged Snargaluff.

She nodded fervently and they left the common room, eventually settling in a quiet stairwell on the sixth floor to sit side-by-side on a step.

"Look, Hermione— I didn't put it in," Harry said quietly.

"You mean—"

Hermione watched as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the tiny golden glass vial she'd seen him hover over Ron's pumpkin juice that morning; but the wax seal was still intact.

"You only pretended…" realization dawned on her, and she suddenly felt enormously guilty for believing Harry would have ever used Felix Felicis in such a way.

"He only _thought_ I did. I'm sorry I had to lie to you, but I had to figure out some way to get him to believe in himself."

"You weren't made Captain for nothing," she smiled shyly.

Harry shrugged, but an appreciative grin graced his lips.

"I'm sorry, Harry—"

"No, don't be. It's my fault."

"Well, I'm still sorry… you know, for judging you."

"You? Judge me? Never!"

"I resent that," she replied, laughing, as he bumped into her side playfully.

"Now that we're being honest… where were you today? I know you didn't come to the match. You can't have been _that_ mad at me… right?" Harry asked hopefully.

Hermione smiled, softened by his concern.

"Of course not," she assured. She considered what to say to him, how to tell her best friend about Malfoy and her suspicions about the Room of Requirement, but found she couldn't.

_It's all he'll be able to think about,_ she thought, knowing the feeling. _And he'll be rash… he could compromise everything._

She idly wondered when she'd begun to take on the full responsibility of discovering what Malfoy was up to— had it been that day in Hogsmeade when Katie Bell was cursed? Or on the train, when she'd pressed her wand into Malfoy's arm? Or perhaps it had been the very moment he'd clasped the platinum chain around her neck.

"Well— I'm a little embarrassed…" she began as she idly conjured a flock of canaries that fluttered and chirped merrily over their heads. It was a spell she'd mastered this term; oddly, the little birds comforted her… they gave her perspective, and reminded her there was a whole world out there, a freer one perhaps, one wholly less complicated…

" …at breakfast I saw Malfoy on the Map… up in the hospital wing. It seemed odd— he'd never miss a match against Gryffindor—"

"That's what I thought when I found out he wasn't playing," Harry agreed, nodding fervently.

Hermione felt a stab of guilt at her lie.

"Malfoy would never miss a chance to play against us, even if he was on his death bed."

Hermione grimaced at the imagery, but continued.

"Right. So I decided to get the Cloak and watch him. I thought maybe he planned to use the empty castle to his advantage…"

"So what was he up to?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Well, that's the thing… he never left the hospital wing. He really _was_ sick after all."

Hermione looked down at her hands, guilt coursing through her. She was aware she was making deception quite a habit.

"It's all right," Harry sighed. "I would've done the same… if there was no match, I mean," he shrugged. "And nice birds," Harry added, looking upward. "They're pretty brilliant."

"Thanks," she said dismissively, but not unkindly.

"We need evidence," she said determinedly, still frustrated at her failed attempts at entering the Room of Requirement.

Harry wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder, "We'll find some—"

Just then, from behind them on the stairwell, they noticed the darkness of a long shadow approach, followed by the faint echo of nearing footsteps.

"At least you two have the decency not to subject the rest of your house to this pathetic display."

Harry and Hermione turned to see Malfoy, dressed all in black, descending the staircase, a haughty, lopsided smirk upon his lips.

Hermione frowned and did her best to ignore the way his light gray eyes seemed to pierce through the darkness of the stairwell.

"Although, on second thought, you'd never let yourself be seen with Granger like this in public, eh Potter? Good on you— didn't think you had that much self-respect."

"Bugger off, Malfoy," Harry replied through gritted teeth.

Malfoy smiled sarcastically without a glance in her direction. "Gladly."

She took Harry's hand and stood to let Malfoy pass, and to get as far away from him as possible.

"You don't look sick to me, Malfoy— well, no more sickly than you usually do," Harry said, glaring.

"Made a full recovery. Some of us aren't as weak as you, Potter— I don't feel the need to run to the hospital wing every time I get a runny nose."

"Well, your team would've certainly been better off in the hospital wing with you today… they were definitely headed there after we killed them on the pitch."

Hermione noticed confusion briefly flash across Draco's expression, but it disappeared as soon as it had arrived. He sneered, then turned to face Hermione.

"What's _your_ take on the match, Granger?" Draco began with mock sincerity. "I know you never miss them." He did not break eye-contact with her as he asked.

_He knows…_ Hermione realized with panic. _He knows I was outside the Room of Requirement. But he_ can't _know… can he?_ Hermione wondered as she scrutinized his now-impassive expression.

"Let's go, Harry," she said firmly, tearing her eyes away from Draco and turning to head back to Gryffindor Tower. It'd been a long day, and she had no desire to look into Malfoy's face for a moment more.

"Better watch out Potter, I doubt the Mudblood knows much about protection… but then again, your mother was a Mudblood too, wasn't she? Must've pulled the same trick on your dad. Guess the apple doesn't really fall far from the—"

"Stupefy!" Harry shouted as he wheeled around.

Draco easily dodged the verbal spell.

"Tsk, tsk, Potter… don't you remember what Granger said about non-verbal spells?"

_I'll show him a non-verbal spell. Oppugno,_ Hermione thought, her body coursing with anger, and, if she were to admit, dejection and shame. Apparently, any semblance of understanding, however vague, tentative, and perplexing she and Malfoy had skimmed the surface of as partners in Healing had apparently vanished.

_It's_ Malfoy, she told herself as her little yellow birds regrouped and changed direction. _What did you expect?_

"Protego!" Draco shouted in vain as the birds swarmed him, a whirring fury of pecking and screeching and scratching.

Hermione watched in grim satisfaction as Draco held up his arms to shield his face.

"Brilliant," said Harry.

"Let's go," she said flatly as Draco escaped down the corridor, shouting a colorful cacophony of curse words and protective spells.

/

Hermione arrived early to Healing Monday morning, her first lesson of the day. To her dismay, she saw that Malfoy had done the same.

She spotted him sitting at their table in the otherwise empty classroom, his expression as tired and, as was growing more and more common, as emotionless as ever.

As she approached, unhappily settling into the chair beside him, it was impossible for her to miss the small yellow bird atop her side of the table. The little creature looked worse for wear— battered and twitching feebly, as if hanging on to life.

"What did you do to it?" Hermione asked, her voice cold, her heart leaping into her throat at the sight of the bird.

"What did _I_ do to it?" He replied. "No. You can't be serious, Granger. _You_ did this," Draco watched as she scanned the creature with a wave of her wand, gently touching its shaking feathers with her fingertips.

_Or is it her hand that's shaking?_ Draco wondered.

He'd eventually managed to escape most of Hermione's storming yellow birds, some had even seemed to disappear into thin air, but this one had been injured during his attempt to shield himself. He'd kept an eye on it for the rest of the weekend, and had even tried to heal it, without luck.

He hadn't been able to properly visualize what it might be like after he healed it.

Draco couldn't deny Granger's birds had been a brilliant bit of magic— he remembered how long it had taken him to learn the spell to conjure one single snake for his duel with Potter in second year.

He felt a familiar fury and disgust bubble inside him at the memory of finding Potter's arm wrapped around Granger in the deserted stairwell. The thought certainly had not beneficial to his Occlumency lesson on Sunday, but he found the familiar anger easier to deal with than whatever it was he felt whilst looking at the suffering bird.

Draco found it extraordinarily difficult to observe the defenseless creature; small and broken, fading from existence.

_Another thing I failed to fix._

He'd neither managed to cast Avada Kedavra, to put the bird out of its misery, nor bring the creature back to health… all he'd done was prolong its suffering, as he continued to prolong his mother's and his own, with his repeated failures. How would he ever complete Voldemort's task if he wasn't even able to manage to kill a little bird?

"If you hadn't said—" her voice broke. Apparently, the sight of the struggling bird troubled her too. She shook her head. "Oh, never mind… it doesn't matter now."

"Didn't think you had it in you, Granger, bending defenseless creatures to your will… and murder now, too."

"I didn't—" her voice cracked again, and Draco was surprised to find it brought him no pleasure. In fact, he realized he felt quite the opposite.

_Clear your mind,_ his aunt's words reminded him.

"Can you heal it?" Draco asked, doing his best to hide his concern. He did not miss the glance of surprise Hermione directed his way, however. Draco frowned; clearly, he was not masking his emotion as well as he thought… at least not in her presence.

"I— I think so…" she said.

Draco watched intently as her hesitant golden brown eyes disappeared behind her dark eyelashes. He heard her take a deep, shuddering breath, causing the hair on his arms to stand on end, before she whispered, "Corcillum Inpulsa."

They both watched with bated breath as the bird shuddered, and then was still.

"Oh, no…" Hermione whispered, and Draco looked away.

Hardly a moment passed however, before the little creature sprung to life, hopping about on the table and chirping merrily, as if nothing had happened at all.

Hermione sighed heavily and fell back into her chair.

"Well done, Miss Granger," Andromeda's voice beckoned from the front of the room. Draco and Hermione looked up in unison, with equal surprise. Neither had noticed the professor's entry.

"Thirty points to Gryffindor."

Andromeda approached their table and conjured a small, metal cage. Draco levitated the bird inside.

"You did well, Miss Granger. Healing a grapefruit is one thing, but facing the wounds— and the narrow thread of life— of a living, breathing creature is quite another."

Draco noticed his aunt did not even glance his way.

Draco and Hermione sat in silence as Andromeda returned to the front of the room and the other students began to file in. He tucked the cage under their table.

"It would be better off set free," Hermione whispered.

Draco found he couldn't agree more.

/

"Go on, let's try it," Theo urged.

Draco glanced at the yellow bird wearily as it chirped obliviously about in its cage. He and Theo were in the Room of Hidden Things, as it seemed they were most of the time these days, unless Theo was working on his potion with Granger or they were in class. They'd even started doing most of their schoolwork inside the room.

December marched on, bleak, blustery and bathed in white, but inside the castle was quite the opposite. Twelve grand Christmas trees stood in the Great Hall— fully decorated, as was their norm— floating candlelight illuminated every corridor— even the one leading to the dungeons— the aroma of mistletoe, pine, and cinnamon wafted around every corner, and the visors of the suits of armor seemed to wink merrily in every corridor.

The holiday was fast approaching, and, to Draco's immense relief, Snape had somehow managed to influence Voldemort's decision to allow him to remain at Hogwarts for the break. It would be the first Christmas he would ever spend outside of Malfoy Manor, without his mother and father, but he was glad for it. Surely she'd be safer without him there. Theo planned to remain at the castle to help him.

"It worked with the apple, why shouldn't it work with a bird? Maybe we should try to send something else… something bigger— it'd be a better test," Draco replied, and Theo eyed him skeptically.

After weeks of continued failure, and Crabbe and Goyle's less-than-reliable watch, they'd achieved their first instance of success only a few days ago, when they'd managed to transport an apple to Borgin and Burkes and back again.

Theo's help, as it turned out, had been invaluable. His understanding of the ancient nature of the magic of the Vanishing Cabinet had directed them on a more accurate course of research.

The fruits of their labor were certainly seemed to be paying off.

"Look— I don't want to kill the bird either… but it might actually work. It's all we've got right now, anyway— and I don't think I need to remind you that time is most certainly _not_ on our side."

Draco knew Theo was right of course— they had to test the Cabinet with a living— preferably minimally-sentient— subject, not unlike what they had begun to do in Healing class. The class had recently upgraded from various fruits and vegetables to dummies that were charmed to look rather eerily like large, fleshy living dolls.

Draco sighed and retrieved the little yellow bird— the same one he'd kept in the Room of Hidden Things since the day Granger had healed it— from its cage, and saw his own pale, uncertain image reflected back at him in its tiny black eyes.

He placed the bird inside the Cabinet, and Theo quickly closed the door before it could fly away.

A moment passed before the chirping abruptly stopped. Theo grinned and opened the door.

The bird was gone, obviously transported, but it brought Draco no joy.

"Close it— Borgin's quick when Greyback's watching."

Theo nodded and hastily closed the door to the empty cabinet. They waited in silence, interrupted only with the sound of a barely audible 'thump' a few minutes later.

Draco scowled; he didn't need to open the door again to know what was waiting inside. He reached for the doorknob anyway.

The little yellow bird lay there alone in the darkness, unmoving. At the sight of it, Draco was sure his own heart had been placed in a vice.

"Corcillum Inpulsa," he said emotionlessly, pointing his wand at the bird as Hermione had done.

But the creature lay still.

"Corcillum Inpulsa," he said again, even though he knew it would be futile. The knuckles on his hand turned white as he gripped his wand tightly.

"It's dead, Draco," Theo said quietly.

Draco rounded on Theo, his gray eyes darkened yet blazing. Theo took a hesitant step backward.

"Bombarda!" Draco shouted as he aimed his wand over Theo's shoulder at a towering ceramic urn behind him.

The urn exploded like thunder, showering them in an expansive cloud of gray smoke and jagged shards of pottery.

"FUCK— _DRACO—!_ " Draco heard Theo shout through the ringing in his ears.

Draco made no move to contain the blast, nor to brush the debris from his face and clothes. It was as if all the memories he'd been trying to bury in Occlumency, all the emotion he'd been compartmentalizing—suffocating— had burst forth suddenly, all at once.

He dropped to his knees and stared at his pale palms. To his consternation, his platinum ring glinted up at him, even through the cloud of ash now settling all around them.

He briefly considered throwing _himself_ into the Vanishing Cabinet as Hermione's words reverberated through his mind, _'"It would be better off set free."'_

/

/

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this rather angsty chapter! As always, thank you so much for reading.


	24. Intentions

A/N: Warning to readers: this chapter contains mentions of violence and child abuse.

/

It was the day of Slughorn's Christmas party, and Hermione was no closer to understanding exactly what Malfoy was up to in the Room of Requirement than she'd been the day of Gryffindor's Quidditch match.

Much to her relief, Harry hadn't figured out just why it seemed that Crabbe and Goyle were so often lingering in the same corridor, nor why Malfoy seemed to disappear from the Marauder's Map.

Ron, or 'Won-Won,' as Harry and Hermione often called him now— the nickname perhaps the only positive outcome of his and Lavender's relationship— couldn't seem to care less about Malfoy. Admittedly, Harry and Hermione themselves hadn't opened the Map more than a handful of times, consumed by their mounting coursework. Hermione's time was additionally consumed by Felix Felicis.

She and Theo had successfully managed to maintain the integrity of the potion in all three cauldrons for months now, handling each hiccup in stride, albeit a _nervous_ stride, pushing the limits of their skill.

Thankfully, Slughorn had only checked in on them twice all term; it was clear he was much more interested in the product than the process.

But Hermione and Theo's greatest success had been managing not to kill one another in said process.

In fact, if they didn't know better, and perhaps if they were, for some reason, quite inebriated, they'd admit they'd even begun to form a sort of friendship, albeit a very odd and undeniably precarious one.

"I'll take good care of Felix over break, Granger," Theo announced in the humid store room, wiping his brow as he loomed over the steaming cauldrons.

Hermione wasn't sure exactly when they'd begun referring to the potion as if it were their own offspring.

"So will I," she replied simply. She hadn't bothered to tell him she wasn't leaving the castle for the holiday.

"You're staying?" Theo asked in surprise. "Don't tell me Potter and Weasley are staying, too? Joy to the world," Theo said sarcastically as he organized his potions kit, successfully masking his equal surprise and disappointment at the news.

"Just me, for your information," she said matter-of-factly, before she could stop herself.

Theo resisted the urge to look up in surprise.

Granger was not the type of student to remain in the castle over Christmas; she was the type of person who had a cozy home to return to, one with a warm fire in the hearth, the sitting room decorated with tinsel for the holiday… a home with loving parents. Theo knew her dedication to Felix matched his own, but he also knew even the chance for a taste of liquid luck was not enough for her to choose to spend the better part of her holiday in a boiling hot room bent over three volatile cauldrons… with him.

_Why is she staying?_ He wondered.

_To figure out what you and Draco are up to of course,_ his mind replied.

_But no Potter and Weasley?_ The notion seemed outlandish. _That must mean they don't know… which means Granger's been keeping secrets…_

"Consider it your Christmas gift from me," Hermione said cheerfully, although she rather dreaded the thought of spending the holiday under the same roof as Malfoy and Nott, even one as large as the castle's.

_Why hasn't Granger told them?_ Theo wondered.

"What—? The joy of your presence? Cocky much, Granger? Been hanging around McLaggen a bit too often, I think."

"Please don't mention that trolloping troll—" she groaned as she flipped open her Ancient Runes textbook to prepare for an exam scheduled later that day.

"Language, dear. Oh, I can't wait to see that git's face when you walk into Slughorn's party with Potter tonight… only reason I'm going, really."

Hermione grimaced at the thought of yet another confrontation, unable to focus on Runes. It was one thing to handle a conflict between Malfoy and Harry, _that_ she was used to at least, but the idea of breaking up a fight between Harry and McLaggen, with Theo looking on in amusement, was downright abysmal.

"How do you even know I'm going with Harry?"

"Seriously? The whole school knows you two are going together… I'm not sure who's more pathetic though— Potter, or the herds of cows who still insist on stalking his every move."

Theo suddenly realized he actually felt a little sorry for Hermione.

_If only those girls knew who they were up against…_ he thought, recalling the maniacal look in Granger's eyes when she'd questioned him under the influence of Veritaserum.

She would've worded it differently, but Hermione admitted Theo was right.

The last few weeks leading up to Slughorn's party had been plagued by gaggles of giggling girls lurking under mistletoe, waiting for Harry to walk by, or to scurry away when they spotted her nearing. She'd even overheard Romilda Vane plotting with about a half dozen other girls in the bathroom; they planned to slip Harry a bit of the love potions they'd sent for— disguised as perfumes and cough potions to slip by Filch— from Fred and George's shop.

"And that's only the half of it," Hermione mumbled.

Theo arched an eyebrow, "Care to enlighten me with the other half?"

"Let's just say I'd like to throttle Fred and George Weasley right about now."

"I knew you and Filch had a lot in common… you're meant for each other."

Hermione rolled her eyes, failing to hide her reluctant smile.

"Don't tell Madam Pince, I don't think she could handle the thought of competition… and I really don't fancy being banned from the library," she replied as she diverted her attention back to her Runes.

Theo laughed out loud. "Pince and Filch, eh? Talk about a match made in hell…"

Hermione grinned without looking up from her book.

"But Granger, you should have a little sympathy, no? Not every girl has the luxury of capturing the attention of not one, but— let's see… Krum, Potter, McLaggen…" Theo counted on his fingertips.

… _and Draco,_ he thought, quickly erasing the idea from his mind. _Even I don't have the mental acuity to unpack_ that _mess._

"… _three_ Quidditch players, all without the use of love potions— unless…"

"And you were doing so well complimenting me, Nott," Hermione interrupted without looking up from a particularly complex Rune sequence.

Theo watched her review of Runes with intense intrigue, and felt the familiar, sudden rush of adrenaline he experienced whenever a new plan struck him.

He and Malfoy had managed to successfully transport an apple through the Vanishing Cabinet, but all other attempts had been dismal failures, the little yellow bird worst of all. Theo hadn't let on to Draco yet, but his own research had also reached a standstill.

Theo recognized that the magic of the Vanishing Cabinet was old— ancient even, like Floo powder and Disapparition— so modern texts were not sufficient resources for mending the cabinets' connection. Immune to the castle's wards, Sprock had, at Theo's bequest, personally delivered any and all Ancient Runes texts contained in Greystoke's expansive library. But Theo's own skill had been stretched to its limit, many of the texts nothing more than incomprehensible scribble to him.

Theo was loathe to admit it, but he and Draco needed help.

"Suddenly not a fan of the truth, Granger?" Theo said.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I'm surprised Potter's okay with you staying in the castle over the holiday _without_ him… speaking of which…"

Theo paused. _Draco's definitely going to throw_ me _in the cabinet next._

"…why _are_ you staying? McLaggen hanging around, too? Fancy some alone time with him? Or perhaps you have some special _mission_ in mind?"

Hermione looked up in alarm and they scrutinized one another in heavy silence.

Thanks to Draco's ring, Theo and Draco knew Hermione had been trying to get into the Room of Hidden Things during the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match, and they knew she'd been back since then. They'd figured Potter and Weasley were in on it, as they always seemed to be, but the new information that Hermione was remaining in the castle over break _without_ them told Theo otherwise.

_Potter and Weasley don't know…_

Theo knew it was possible Hermione was simply trying to get into the room for some other purpose, but that seemed too good to be true. Knowing Granger as he did now, he realized it was wholly more likely she _knew_ he and Draco were in there.

He certainly had second (and third, and fourth) thoughts about letting Granger know he and Draco were onto her, and despite knowing Draco would surely murder him for letting on, Theo found he couldn't resist— it was no secret she excelled at Ancient Runes, her understanding far beyond even his own.

Theo saw that her knowledge could be the key to mending the cabinets.

It was a hunch (and an outlandish one at that), but Theo considered perhaps Granger could and _would_ help them.

At any rate, he was bordering on desperation. Draco continued to refuse Snape's help, and they were running out of options, and time.

_Does he know?_ Hermione wondered, remembering Malfoy's comment the night she'd orchestrated her bird barrage. It seemed Malfoy had somehow _known_ she'd been waiting for them outside Room of Requirement during the match.

_But_ how _do they know?_ She asked herself again.

"Special mission? What do you mean?" She asked, doing her utmost to keep her voice even.

"You tell me."

_He definitely knows,_ Hermione thought. "Looking for another opportunity to down some Veritaserum, Nott?"

Nott sighed. She was as exasperating as Draco.

"Look. Let's not fuck around, Granger. I don't know _how_ you know, and I'm not about to tell you how _I_ know… but I'm sure you've been lurking around the seventh floor, one room in particular. And I'm sure that _you_ know Draco and I have been inside that particular room."

Hermione bit her lip in silence.

_She knows, all right,_ Theo mused. _Well, now she_ definitely _knows, you git— you just_ told _her,_ a voice that sounded rather like Draco's answered.

Theo shook his head.

"So humor me for a minute. Let's take a stroll down memory lane. I want you to bring yourself back to last year. Umbridge— let's just call her the Bitch-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named— and the pathetic group of ne'er-do-wells that called themselves the Inquisitorial Squad— yes, I'm including my dear misguided friend, Draco—" Theo added, noting Hermione's look of surprise.

Hermione cringed at the memory. She preferred to forget about Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad.

"Well, they just caught you and Potter and the rest of your little fellowship up to no good in her office. The Bitch-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named has a thing for the Unforgivable curses, you see, and Potter's her favorite target."

Hermione suddenly found she could not meet Nott's eyes, the memory too painful.

"You and Potter and the rest are defenseless. You watch her raise her wand, ready to cast the perfect Cruciatus."

"What are you getting at, Nott?" Hermione breathed, her anger rising. Nott hadn't been there, she realized, he hadn't been in the Inquisitorial Squad— so she reasoned Malfoy must have recounted the incident in exquisite, no doubt gloating, detail.

"You knew you were in that position in the first place because ignorant, impulsive Potter just can't help himself… but even so, you would've done _anything_ in that moment, anything to help him. I know it."

"So what?" She snapped, crossing her arms over her chest, doing her best to bury the now-resurfaced fear and desperation of that moment.

"I know because I'm living that moment now, too…" Theo sighed, knowing he was about to breach the point of no return.

"Draco's caught between a fool's errand and the receiving end of a wand poised to cast an Unforgiveable— and I don't think I need to say _which_ Unforgiveable."

A tense silence stretched between them.

"Harry is a good person, with good intentions. Anyone with good intentions would want to help him. Why do you want to help Malfoy? He's—"

"An arse? I know… but he's not heartless. Sounds an awful lot like Potter to me."

"I don't believe you— when have Malfoy's intentions _ever_ been good?"

"You talk about him like you know him… but you don't."

"And let me guess— you do?" She rolled her eyes. "You've only become friends this year…"

"That's not true. We've—"

He paused, wondering how much he should reveal. He was also deeply uncomfortable sharing details about his own life and upbringing.

_It's the only way,_ his mind urged.

"Draco and I have been friends our whole lives."

Hermione listened, trying her best to keep her expression impassive to mask her piqued interest.

"Humor me again, Granger," Theo said as he began to unbutton his shirt.

"Nott—! What the—?" She turned away.

"Prude much? Or are you just scared you won't be able to resist me?" He couldn't help but grin at her obvious discomfort.

"I'm leaving!"

"Honestly, Granger? Just look… I'm not trying to seduce you, I'm showing you my scar."

She turned back to face him with extreme hesitation, and saw that Nott had indeed unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a light red scar stretching jaggedly down the center of his chest.

"Nott… what…?"

"Let's just say our little interview was hardly my first experience with Veritaserum. You've met Lucius Malfoy before, haven't you? Well, imagine him, but with serious anger issues and entirely less patient. That's my father."

"Your—"

"—yes, my father. The man has always had a rather _unique_ parenting style."

Hermione's eyes widened in horror at the implication of his words.

"You're telling me your— your _father_ did that?" Hermione's eyes flicked again to the scar on his chest.

Theo nodded.

"The worst of if happened when I was about eight. I'd only just realized our house-elves were not willing servants at all, but brainwashed slaves… and I wasted no time giving my clothing away."

"Freeing them," Hermione interjected with surprise, recalling how Harry had managed to free Dobby from Malfoy servitude with a sock.

"Right. It was months before my father even noticed our house-elves were disappearing, but when he did, well… he wasted no time interrogating me. You see, I was what Draco likes to refer to as a 'problem child.'"

Hermione listened in awed, and horrified, silence.

"As usual, I tried to resist his Veritaserum the best I could… by then it was actually starting to take him longer and longer to get answers… I was getting better at resisting it, you see… but I failed eventually, obviously. No one can resist Veritaserum completely, especially not a scrawny eight year old. I think the effort must've nearly killed me— I didn't have a voice and I could barely get out of bed for three months afterward."

He paused, but Hermione discovered she could not speak.

"But now I have this lovely souvenir," Theo continued, gesturing to the scar on his chest. "You know, to remember the good times."

"Nott, I—"

Theo shook his head. He didn't want her sympathy. The memory of the incident still stung, not because of the pain he'd _endured_ , but because of the pain he'd unwittingly _inflicted_.

"My punishment paled in comparison to the punishment dear old dad inflicted on the remaining house-elves who'd failed to mention the other elves had been freed."

Theo cringed at the horrifying memory, of Sprock's injuries; the elf still limped every time it rained.

"Nott…" Hermione whispered, still finding it difficult to find her own voice. "I…"

She knew Harry's childhood had been awful— raised by an abusive aunt and uncle who didn't want him, a cousin who took every opportunity to bully him— but she'd never imaged Nott, the sole heir of a wealthy, pureblood family, could have possibly endured much the same… or worse.

"What does this have to do with Malfoy?" She asked gently.

"Like I said, I could barely get out of bed for three months afterward. Apparently, Draco hadn't heard from me in a while, so he showed up at my front door. At the time, the new elves were too frightened to come near me and the house-elves that stayed were still too injured to climb the stairs or apparate… so my drunken governess let Draco in, against my father's instruction— how she managed to hang around so long baffles me… I think my father must've been fucking her, now that I think about it— anyway, Draco found me and I know I probably looked about as good as Weasley."

Hermione listened in stunned silence despite the dig at Ron.

"Draco kept sneaking back to try to help me, in the way an eight-year-old could, anyway. He brought me healing potions and salves— most of which I gave to the injured house-elves, by the way, but that's another story— he tried to cheer me up… even managed to petrify my governess a few times," Theo sighed heavily, the ghost of a smile on his lips at the memory.

"You see Granger, Draco did this all at great risk to his own personal safety. If my father had found out he'd been helping me… or if _his_ father had discovered what he was getting up to…"

"Malfoy's father was abusive too?"

He had never heard anyone say it before, and even though there was no denying the truth of it, the sound of the words strung together gave Theo pause.

_Father was abusive. I was abused._

He shook his head.

"'Suppose you might say so. Lucius is more the emotionally- and mentally- abusive type though."

Hermione felt equally touched and horrified at hearing this information, yet not entirely surprised, having witnessed Lucius' behavior firsthand. Admittedly, she was also touched by Theo's story, and wished she could've been the friend to Harry that Draco had been for Theo before their time at Hogwarts.

She shook her head, unconvinced. _This is_ Malfoy _he's talking about— Draco. Malfoy._

One act of common decency did not simply make a person _good,_ nor did it prove that the person's intentions were good.

"So Malfoy isn't completely wretched. It's still not the same," she said firmly, now meeting Theo's hazel eyes. "It doesn't mean he has good intentions… it doesn't mean he cares about anyone but himself now…"

Hermione tried not to ponder the details of what Theo had just explained. Instead, she thought of the Dark Mark that was likely under Malfoy's sleeve, the one she had yet to actually see for herself.

"Malfoy chose—" she began.

"—the only thing Draco _chose_ was to take the opportunity to try to save himself, and his mother—" Theo snapped sharply, remembering Draco's frenzy after seeing Narcissa's torture at the hands of Voldemort. "As any person with a soul would."

Hermione's eyes widened in shock. _So it's true._

At Hermione's expression, Theo knew he'd said too much. _Desperation does funny things to a person,_ he considered humorlessly.

But Theo knew better; it wasn't so much his own desperation as it was _loyalty_ that pushed him to ask for Granger's help. He knew he was certainly betraying Draco's confidence, but Theo felt his loyalty to his best friend's continued ability to keep his heart beating trumped all else.

"Don't you think the Malfoys deserve—"

"Who are _you_ to decide who deserves what fate, Granger? You sounded an awful lot like my father, just then, casting judgement and punishment. Don't make me question your intelligence, you're better than that. I know Potter and Weasley consider themselves and their whole cult of do-gooders as innocents, that they can do no wrong, but you and I know that _no one_ is innocent."

Hermione crossed her arms firmly over her chest. "I'll admit right and wrong isn't black and white, but Malfoy— after everything he's said to me and Harry and Ron, after everything he's done?"

He knew Hermione was right, in part. He recognized Draco _had_ been cruel; Theo could not deny his friend's past.

_But people change._

"He's no saint, but neither are you, if I'm not mistaken. I have two words for you, Marietta— Edgecombe—"

"But—"

"Here's three more— Cormac fucking McLaggen—"

"They deserved it!"

"There you go again, Granger, deciding what people deserve. So you're saying Draco deserves to _die_ for his mistakes?"

"No— I—"

"I didn't think so."

They stared at one another in heated silence.

"I don't believe you," Hermione said quietly. "Malfoy's after glory. He only cares about himself," her voice betrayed her uncertainty.

She couldn't shake the memory of Narcissa Malfoy's gentle hand on Draco's shoulder, nor the obvious discomfort he'd shown for the dying bird… she couldn't ignore the complexity she'd now observed time after time in Draco's gray eyes… as gray as the path that laid before her now… as gray as how she felt about him…

"And here we are again, Granger. But if you think I'm letting any more Veritaserum near me…" He buttoned up his shirt.

"Why should I believe you?" She interrupted.

The question caught him off guard, but he did not falter.

"Because lives hang in the balance, Granger, and I _know_ you can help us…"

"Get someone else's help."

"Look, I'm not happy to say this, but you're the only one. I know it. I— _we—_ need your help."

"I'm willing to bet Malfoy doesn't even know you're asking me for help, does he? He'd never want _my_ help…"

"Malfoy doesn't know what's good for him."

"And you do?"

"Well… yes," Theo answered simply, as if it were obvious. "Like you know what's best for Potter."

"Why are you telling me all this? I should go to Dumbledore—"

"Don't you think I considered that you'd run off to the Headmaster— although, is he even Headmaster anymore? He's never here— but don't you think I considered that you'd tell McGonagall, or Potter, or the Order? Of course I did. But you _haven't_ told Potter and Weasley that you know Draco and I are in the Room of Requirement, or Hidden things, or whatever the fuck it's called, have you?"

Her silence was answer enough.

"Speaking of bets… I'm willing to bet you haven't even told them about Felix."

She swallowed. _Infuriating. How does he always seem to_ know _?_

Even if she could think of a lie, there was no point in it; she knew he'd see right through her.

"I haven't told Draco about Felix, either," Theo continued plainly. "He thinks we're brewing some other potion."

"I don't care."

"I think you _do_ care. Quite a bit, too. You and Draco seem to share that little problem."

Hermione furiously shoved her book into her bag and motioned to leave, but Theo blocked her path. She stared angrily into his chest.

"Move."

"Look, Granger— I have a way of reading people… and being right about them. Don't let me be wrong about you."

/

/

"You're dead."

Theo jumped out of the way just in time; Draco's nonverbal spell rebounded off the stone wall where he'd just stood.

"Protego!" Theo gasped, managing to deflect yet another of Draco's offensive spells.

"I _knew_ I never should've told you—"

"Stop!" Theo shouted, but his protestations were futile as ropes burst forth from Draco's wand, only to ensnare themselves around him. Theo collapsed to the floor, struggled against the binds.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't murder you right now."

"Oh, Malfoy," Theo tried to reply cooly as he continued to struggle. "We both know you're no killer—"

"Shut the fuck up, Nott!" Draco exclaimed in anger as he pointed his wand between Theo's eyes.

"Struck a nerve, didn't I? Interesting…"

"I told you to shut the hell up—"

"But you told me to give you a good reason _not_ to kill me. Which is it, Draco? You're sending mixed signals. You and Granger really are made for each other."

"You know what? I'll just wipe your memory. Less mess. It's been easy enough with Crabbe and Goyle, so your mind shouldn't be any more difficult… it'll be _easier_ probably."

"That hurts," Theo replied dryly, still wriggling on the floor as Draco lorded over him.

"Hold still," Draco said as he aimed his wand again.

"Wait—!" Theo exclaimed. "Just— just wait a bleeding second—"

"Times up, Theo. You blew it the second you decided to open your fat mouth to Granger—"

"—memory charm. It's a great idea— it just might work…"

"What the hell are you—" Draco fumed.

"Listen to me," Theo said evenly. He was making it up as he went along, but he knew it was the only way.

Theo knew Draco would never accept Snape's help, and there was no way they'd be able to figure out how to mend the cabinet in time without help. Granger was the only way… and he had to convince Draco to agree.

"We can wipe her memory. We use her to fix the cabinet, but the second it's done, we use a memory charm."

"We won't _get_ the opportunity to wipe her memory. She's not daft like Potter and Weasley— the second she sees the cabinet she'll remember the one from Borgin's, and she'll know I'm trying to—"

Draco stared at Theo in silence. He still hadn't told Theo exactly _what_ he planned to do once the cabinets were fixed, and he wasn't about to.

"Trying to _what_ , Draco? Contrary to popular belief, I'm no fool either. I have a strong feeling I know _exactly_ what you plan to do once the cabinets' connection is repaired—"

"Well, it doesn't change the fact that the second she sees it she'll run to Potter, or Dumbledore, or the fucking Order," retorted Draco.

"I told you, Granger hasn't told _anyone_ that we've been in the Room of Hidden Things. She hasn't even told Potter and Weasley about our potion for Slughorn. And if she hasn't told them by now… she's not going to."

"She hasn't told anyone about that scar on her collarbone either…" Draco murmured, more to himself than to Theo.

"Scar?" Theo questioned, his eyes widening in surprise. It was the first he'd heard of Granger's scar. There was obviously a lot more at play between Draco and Granger than he'd suspected. "Not from the necklace—?"

Theo took Draco's silence as confirmation of his suspicions, and as a moment of opportunity.

"I told you, our research is going nowhere. It's worth the risk if she can help us fix the cabinet… she's still wearing he necklace, even after it— burned her, or whatever. And you said she hasn't told anyone about it? She hasn't told anyone a damn thing about anything. Merlin knows why… but it doesn't change the fact that she's been silent. And how would it look if she decided to tell now that's she's kept so many secrets all this time?"

Theo took a deep breath. "She's not going to tell."

He of course could not be certain of this, but he had his inklings. And his inklings were usually right.

"I don't believe you," Draco said truthfully.

It was risky, Draco knew, and it seemed more trouble than it was worth, but Voldemort's threat loomed over him— his mother's life, and his own, hanging in the balance. And time was marching on, relentless.

"Yet another item to add to the list of things you and Granger have in common," said Theo.

Draco sighed heavily and released Theo's binds with a lazy wave of his wand. "I know I'm going to regret this."

"What difference does it make, honestly? You _already_ regret everything…"

"Truer words have never been spoken."

"…well, everything except Granger's little necklace, of course," Theo continued as if Draco hadn't said anything at all.

Draco pivoted, and, with lightning agility, promptly punched Theo in the eye.

Theo staggered backwards, cursing.

"—FUCK— Malfoy!— What the hell was that for—?"

"For being an utter twat… don't try to pretend you didn't deserve it." Draco rubbed his knuckles and winced at the pain in his forearm. His Mark looked as bad as ever.

Theo sighed, idly thinking he might've been better off without friends… he certainly wouldn't have had to deal with quite so much pain, and annoyance, this term.

When he regained his balance and the ability to see somewhat straight, he pointed his own wand at his eye to heal himself. He rubbed his face as the pain gradually dissipated.

"C'mon," Draco announced coldly. "We're going to be late."

Draco patted the small bottle concealed in his dress robes without Theo's notice.

"I want nothing more than to get this over with," he added grimly, suddenly remembering Granger and Potter were also attending Slughorn's party… together.

/

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! A special thanks to those who leave kudos and of course to reviewers; your thoughts and kind words keep me excited to write and post :)


	25. The Unbreakable Vow

/

"Hermione, you— you look great," Harry said softly, his emerald eyes shining as she joined him in the common room.

Hermione was dressed in an off-the shoulder Gryffindor-red party dress. She'd required a bit of Ginny's help, but she had managed to tame her hair into soft curls, the ends of which she felt brush against her bare shoulders as she took Harry's arm.

"You do too, Harry," she replied, and she meant it. She hadn't seen Harry dressed up since the Yule Ball, and she'd thought him handsome then; now however, well… she suddenly found herself unable to fault the girls who'd been stalking him for weeks.

"Where's Ginny?" Harry asked.

"She's waiting for Neville," Hermione replied as they made their way through the portrait hole to attend Slughorn's Christmas party, the Fat Lady exclaiming, '"Never have I witnessed a more charming couple!"' behind them.

"Neville?" Harry inquired. "What about Dean?"

"Oh, they broke up—" Hermione explained nonchalantly.

"Again?"

"Again," Hermione affirmed. "Hopefully for good this time, they're all wrong for each other."

Harry shrugged. "Neville and Ginny? Makes sense."

Hermione couldn't agree more, even if Ginny explained they were attending the party only as friends.

"Did Ron leave to meet Luna?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, said he'd see us there."

"I can't believe he actually agreed to go with Luna…"

Harry scowled.

"I didn't mean it like that! I _wish_ he and Luna were dating. I only meant that Ron shouldn't have agreed to go with _anyone…_ not while he's still dating Lavender. She's furious," Hermione exclaimed, although she appreciated that Ron's lack of tact meant that it'd likely be a long time— she hoped never— before they'd have to again witness Ron and Lavender's stomach-turning public displays of affection.

"Really? You can't believe it? Is this the same Ron we're talking about?"

Hermione laughed, and Harry returned her smile, his green eyes warm.

"I still don't understand why he wants to go to this party so badly," Harry continued.

"Now it's my turn," she said, "Is this the same Ron we're talking about?"

"Touché," Harry agreed. "I guess the biggest surprise is how Luna got an invite in the first place."

"Simple really, once Ginny explained to Slughorn that she'd arranged your Quibbler interview last year," Hermione explained as they turned down a corridor and the distant echo of Christmas music greeted their ears.

Harry rolled his eyes.

"I hope you're prepared, Harry, Slughorn's not going to let you out of his sight tonight."

"Happy Christmas to me," Harry replied sarcastically, and Hermione was reminded of the recent conversation she'd had with Theo. She'd been distracted all evening about his proposal, what he'd told her about Malfoy.

"And here I was hoping not to let you out of my sight tonight," Harry added quietly.

Harry paused suddenly at the door of an empty classroom and led them inside.

"Harry— what?" She asked in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"If we're not going to have another chance to be alone," Harry said softly— and nervously, Hermione noted— as he closed the door behind them and cast a 'Muffliato.'

When he turned back around to face her, she saw in his familiar gaze a contradictory mixture of trepidation and resolve. She also spotted a small, velvet box in his hands.

"Since we won't see each other over the holiday, I— I thought I'd give you your Christmas gift tonight."

"Oh, Harry— you didn't have to. I already sent your gift to the Burrow," Hermione felt an overwhelming appreciation for his unexpected thoughtfulness, and she couldn't deny her heart was suddenly beating quite rapidly.

"That's okay… well— here," Harry said quietly as he placed the box in her hands and she felt his fingertips brush her palm.

"Happy Christmas, Hermione."

Hermione opened the little box and could not contain her smile of gratitude. Inside sat a beautiful gold necklace, delicate and pretty, its center adorned with a small, albeit startlingly bright and clear, round diamond.

"I know jewelry's not really your thing or— or whatever… but I— I wanted you to have a better one. Do you like it?" Harry asked tentatively.

"I love it," she replied in all honesty and threw her arms around him. "Thank you, Harry."

She felt him relax in her embrace. She could tell he'd put a lot of thought into the gift, that it meant a lot to him.

_But what_ does _it mean, exactly?_ She wondered, thinking how her Christmas gift to him, a new pair of Quidditch gloves, paled in comparison… on multiple levels.

"Help me put it on?" She asked the moment they parted. She put the necklace in Harry's hands before turning around, brushing her hair to one shoulder.

For a moment, she felt as though she were back in Borgin and Burkes, pressed up against the glass display case. But Malfoy's firm hands were not around her waist, and when she felt Harry's fingers fumbling to clasp the necklace behind her, when she felt his warm breath on the back of her neck, she could not help but notice how her body did _not_ react the same way it had that day in the shop— the surface of her skin did not tingle, and the sound of her heart did not pound in her ears.

"There," Harry breathed as he fastened the necklace at last. Hermione wondered how the gold and platinum looked together on her neck, side-by-side.

She turned back to face him, a shy smile on her face, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, feeling it was very warm.

Hermione briefly considered telling him everything then and there— about Felix Felicis, the odd sort of alliance she and Nott were developing, everything Nott had told her about Malfoy, and every strange moment that had transpired between her and Malfoy since their meeting in Borgin and Burkes— but all Hermione could see were a pair of bright gray eyes staring back at her, and she suddenly found it quite impossible…

The only thing she could manage to say was, "Happy Christmas, Harry."

/

As predicted, Harry was accosted by Slughorn the moment they stepped through his office door. Slughorn's office, now decorated in red and green, had obviously been expanded for the party's occupants.

"Harry, m'boy! You made it at last! Arm-in-arm with Miss Granger, I see— splendid! My two best Potions students. Although, Misters Nott and Malfoy are giving you both a run for your money… right, well, Miss Granger, I do hope you do not mind me stealing Harry here— many introductions to be made, after all… and speaking of Mister Nott, I see him lurking by the punch over there, why don't you join him Miss Granger…?"

Hermione watched Harry shoot her a sympathetic look as he was dragged away by Slughorn. She couldn't hide her smirk as she silently mouthed "I told you so" as Slughorn proceed to introduce Harry to a rather stout-looking wizard with an irrationally pointy white beard.

Hermione turned and found that Nott was indeed lurking by the punch bowl, impassively observing the room, as was his custom. She couldn't help but notice he looked a bit put-out, rubbing at his eye. She winced at the memory of the jagged scar on his chest, and the explanation of how he'd gotten it.

_Where's Malfoy?_ She wondered, idly bringing her fingertips to her throat, frowning at the unfamiliar feel of not one, but two necklaces.

She sighed and was about to join Nott when Ron and Luna approached.

"Dragon balls?" Luna asked.

"Dragon—?" Hermione grimaced.

"Balls," Luna explained plainly, as if she were talking about the weather. She gestured to a small plate in her hand; a few steaming, round morsels of green and brown sat atop its shining surface.

Hermione watched as Ron buckled over with laughter. Luna popped one of the morsels unceremoniously into her mouth.

"Oh, er— no thank you," Hermione replied kindly, ignoring Ron.

"Fair enough," Luna replied, dabbing at the corners of her lips with a napkin. "They're loaded with garlic. Not to everyone's taste, I'm sure… the vampire over there in particular," Luna gestured to a very tall, gaunt and exceedingly pale man dressed in a velvet suit that was the same shade of red as blood.

Ron's laughter abruptly deceased and Hermione smirked.

"Vampire," Ron whispered, as if they'd needed an explanation.

Across the room, Hermione noticed a few couples had begun to dance. Malfoy was not among them.

_Where could he be?_

"We should introduce ourselves, Ronald," Luna said as she finished off the dragon balls. "I bet he's here to try to spy on Dumbledore for Scrimgeour— too bad for him Dumbledore's not in the castle…"

"Scrimgeour?" Hermione inquired, wondering what the Minister and the vampire across the room could possibly have to do with one another.

"Yes, Minister Scrimgeour, you see, he's a vampire too—"

Hermione regarded Luna with marked skepticism.

"Father wrote a very long article about it when Scrimgeour first took over from Cornelius Fudge, but he was forced not to publish by somebody from the Ministry. Obviously, they didn't want the truth to get out!"

"Er— we can't talk to him…" Ron announced, eyeing the vampire nervously. "Because we—" he scanned the room, looking for an out, "—we have to dance now!"

Luna beamed as Ron grabbed her hand and led her toward the makeshift dance floor, making sure to put plenty of space between them and the vampire.

Hermione laughed, then scowled just as quickly as she saw McLaggen approach. It was obvious he'd been waiting for a moment she was alone.

"If you were my date, Granger, I wouldn't let you out of my sight. Potter's an idiot."

"I wouldn't date you—" Hermione began.

"Punch?" McLaggen interrupted, shoving a glass of said beverage into her hand. She rather wished she could punch _him_ , preferably in his smug face. It was clear the beverage he gave her was spiked; it reeked of something foul.

"I added a little something _special_ to it," he said, a stupid grin spreading across his face.

_I could use a few shots of Ogden's right now,_ Hermione grimaced as McLaggen sidled ever closer. She could practically feel Nott's eyes upon her from across the room.

_He must be loving this._

"No thanks," Hermione replied, and she suddenly felt a gentle hand on the small of her back. It was Harry.

_Thank Merlin,_ she thought as Harry took the glass from her hand and shoved it back into McLaggen's.

"No date this evening, McLaggen? Seems even love potions won't work for some people."

Hermione had just enough time to see McLaggen's expression alight with rage before Harry guided her to the dance floor.

He took her hand in his and pulled her a bit closer as they began to sway to the music.

"Thank you," she breathed in relief.

"My pleasure… that git… I'd just love to—" Harry sputtered in anger.

"Confunding him was too kind, I know," Hermione agreed, smiling as she met Harry's gaze. He returned the smile.

"If he comes near you again—"

"—I'll make what I did to Malfoy look like a field trip to the zoo," she replied. "So who did Slughorn show you off to?"

"It'd be quicker to tell you who he _hasn't_ showed me off to yet," Harry answered dryly.

Hermione laughed, and as she and Harry rotated, she finally spotted Malfoy. He and Snape were huddled in a corner of the room; Snape looking as stern as ever, and Malfoy looking as though he wished he could be anywhere else.

"—Hermione?" Harry's voice broke through her distraction.

"Don't turn," she whispered into his ear, pulling him closer. "I think Snape and Malfoy are up to something."

They continued rocking back and forth.

"Here? I wish we could hear them," Harry replied softly into her ear.

"I think they're leaving!" She whispered back as her eyes followed Malfoy and Snape's path toward the door. She saw Nott still lurking by the punch, but his attention was now occupied by a rather inebriated-looking Daphne Greengrass.

"We should follow them," Harry replied. "I brought the Cloak."

"That was brilliant, Harry!" Hermione said excitedly, pulling him toward the door Malfoy and Snape had just disappeared through.

"Harry! Who knew you and Miss Granger were quite the waltzers!" Slughorn appeared before them, his expansive girth blocking their exit. "Of course I did a bit of dancing in my day— well, that's a story for another time… speaking of stories, Harry, I want you to meet my biographer friend here— Worple…"

'"Go,"' Harry mouthed to her in silence, his expression one of extreme irritation and disappointment.

She nodded and slipped through the door, without the Cloak.

Hermione kicked off her heels and darted down the corridor as quickly as she could, the soft pounding of her bare feet masked by the music and clamor issuing from Slughorn's office.

She listened as intently as she could as she passed empty classroom after empty classroom until at last she caught up with Snape and Malfoy, their voices muffled. She crouched by the keyhole of a classroom door at the very end of the corridor.

"... cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled—"

"Already you are suspected of another clumsy and foolish act—"

"Who suspects me?" she heard Malfoy snap angrily. She imagined his light gray eyes blazing through the darkness of the classroom. "And don't look at me like that! I know what you're doing, and it won't work any more—"

There was a pause and then Snape said quietly, "Ah... it seems you have not wasted your entire term with failed and foolish endeavors. What thoughts are you trying to conceal, Draco?"

Hermione pressed her ear more closely against the keyhole… it almost sounded as if they were talking about Occlumency.

_It can't be…_

But then Hermione recalled what seemed to be the ever-growing impassivity in Malfoy's eyes…

"You have failed to come to my office three times now, Draco—"

"So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!" Jeered Malfoy.

There was another pause. Then Snape said, "You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things."

"You should stop wasting your time telling me to come to your office then," Malfoy replied dryly.

"Listen to me," said Snape, his voice so low and threatening now Hermione felt as though _she_ were the one receiving a stern lecture.

"I have told you time and time again— I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco—"

Hermione used all her strength not to recoil in shock. _An Unbreakable Vow…_ she knew what it was, how permanent and binding, and she knew that it meant Snape had promised to protect Malfoy, or die.

"Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need your protection. It's _my_ job, he— he gave it to me and I'm doing it. I've got a plan… it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would."

Hermione thought she could hear the doubt in Malfoy's voice… and the fear. She was certain Snape could, too.

_'"—Draco chose to try to save himself, and his mother—"'_ Theo's words reverberated through her mind.

"What is your plan?" Snape asked.

Malfoy remained silent.

Hermione too wondered what Malfoy's plan was, and what exactly he and Theo needed help with in the Room of Requirement.

"If you tell me what you are trying to do, as I have offered before, I can assist you..."

"I have all the assistance I need, thanks, I'm— I'm not alone."

"If you are placing your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle—"

"They're not the only ones—"

She could practically feel Malfoy breaking.

"—I've got better people—"

_He's talking about Nott… and me?_ She asked herself.

"Then why not confide in me too, and I can—"

She didn't understand why Malfoy refused Snape's assistance, especially when he knew Snape had made an Unbreakable Vow, but she certainly had her suspicions.

_Maybe Malfoy trusts Snape about as much as Harry does._ Hermione admitted it was certainly becoming more and more difficult to see Snape's true alliances, no matter what Dumbledore told Harry about his unyielding trust in the professor.

"It has to be me, or he'll— he'll…"

_"Because lives hang in the balance, Granger, and I know you can help…"'  
_

_Nott wasn't lying after all,_ Hermione realized. _They're desperate._

There was another pause, then Snape said coldly, "You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father—"

"—my father was weak. But I'm not… I refuse to fail," she heard Malfoy reply fiercely, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. His voice sounded nearer, as if he were moving toward the door.

She could not risk being seen. Hastily, she darted into the shadows of an empty classroom across the hall, and just in time. The door burst open, and Malfoy disappeared down the corridor, Snape's cloak billowing not far behind.

As she headed back to Slughorn's party, Hermione's mind was racing, replaying everything she'd just heard, and everything Nott had told her earlier that day.

She considered going to Dumbledore or McGonagall there and then, debated if she should tell Harry and Ron, but again found she could not.

_"'Lives hang in the balance…'"_

_What am I going to do?_

Just as the music from Slughorn's party reached her ears, totally oblivious of her surroundings, she bumped into someone quite solid and large. The pungent smell of alcohol flooded her senses.

It was McLaggen.

"There you are, you slippery little minx," he slurred as he placed both of his hands on her upper arms.

She felt the sweaty grip of his stubby fingers against her skin and wanted to wretch. Her chest tightened with fear. They were alone in the hall, and with Harry tied up with Slughorn and Ron with Luna, it was unlikely anyone was going to come looking for her.

"You're drunk, McLaggen. You should go back to your dorm," she tried to keep her voice calm.

"Only if you come with me," he replied as his grip tightened and he leaned forward to kiss her.

"Get off of me!" She screamed as she dodged him and his lips landed sloppily on her cheek. Hermione struggled against him, but his grip was so strong she found she was physically unable to reach her wand.

"McLaggen, you slimy bastard," a familiar voice, cool and even and deeply menacing, sounded from the shadowy hallway.

She and McLaggen turned to find Malfoy emerge from the darkness.

"Bugger off, Malfoy," McLaggen replied lamely. "This is none of your business."

Hermione winced as his grip on her arms tightened. She was sure she would have bruising to heal.

Hermione swallowed as her gaze met Malfoy's. His gray eyes flashed as he glided toward them. She couldn't be sure how this was going to end.

"Oh, McLaggen… you must be thinking in that little brain of yours that tonight's your lucky night— Granger, alone, without Potter… although, the probability of you having any thought at all is about as likely as Granger actually agreeing to go back to your dorm with you…"

Draco had an inkling he and Snape had been followed from Slughorn's party, but he would've pegged it on Nott. Seeing Hermione now at McLaggen's mercy, he was thankful he'd decided to wait and see exactly who'd been following him.

"I told you to fuck off, Malfoy— what do you care about the Mudblood, anyway?"

A few things happened all at once; McLaggen released Hermione abruptly, clumsily reaching for his wand, the inebriated force of which knocked her into the stone wall.

In contrast, Malfoy's movements were that of a Seeker's— sure and swift; he cast a silent stunning spell before McLaggen's fingertips even graced the handle of his wand.

Before Hermione realized what had happened, the hallway echoed with the sound of McLaggen's skull thumping against the floor. He now lay in a jumbled heap, unmoving and unconscious.

She looked up from her spot on the floor— chest heaving, heart thumping in her ears, the power of Malfoy's spell lingering in the air, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end— and found him looking as poised as ever, watching her.

Draco's gray eyes met hers and she saw a deep satisfaction there, and, had she been able to focus better, she might have seen his fear there too… fear _for_ her.

He strode toward her, quickly closing the distance between them with his long stride. Silently, he stretched out his hand to help her up; she took it gratefully.

Hermione was surprised to find his hand was warm and steady; it contrasted sharply with the coolness of his ring now pressed against her shaking palm. She was more surprised by his lack of scathing mockery, however.

As Hermione motioned to stand, she lost her footing, ashamed to find herself trembling with adrenaline and fear as she fell. She felt vulnerable and weak, and hated herself for it, particularly in Malfoy's presence.

Malfoy caught her easily and wordlessly, without audible judgement, and she could not ignore the relief that washed over her. He gently lowered them both to the floor.

"Thank you," she managed to whisper from his lap as her breathing failed to return to normal. Draco's arm was wrapped around her firmly, his hand still clasped tightly around hers. "I— I could've handled him," she said as firmly as she could manage.

Draco gave her an incredulous look, one corner of his lips twitching ever so slightly upward, amused— and impressed— by her insistent ferocity. He didn't argue with her; tonight she'd been caught off-guard, overpowered McLaggen's brute strength, but in truth, he knew Granger had more integrity, intelligence, and magical capability in her pinky fingernail than McLaggen could ever hope to achieve in a lifetime.

He said nothing, and allowed his eyes to wander from her face to her bare shoulders.

During the confrontation, the shoulders of Hermione's dress had slipped ever further down her upper arms, revealing more of the bare skin of her still-heaving chest. She and Draco were so close that she could feel his breath on the exposed skin of her sternum. A shiver ran down her spine.

It was only now that Hermione noticed Draco was clad in dark green dress robes, and she couldn't help but admit the sight of him was striking, even in the dim light of the corridor… even though he was _Draco_ _Malfoy._

Hermione watched his eyes as they traveled over her bare shoulders and her collarbone, feeling as though he was leaving a trail of icy fire upon her skin.

"Looks like Christmas came early this year," he said quietly as his eyes found her necklaces.

Draco released her hand and brought his fingertips to the necklace Harry had given her earlier that evening.

"Diamond? Looks like Potter's got something to prove."

Hermione pulled away from Draco, coming to rest in a seated position at his side. She found she didn't want to think about— let alone talk about— Harry.

"We should wipe his memory," she said softly, gesturing to McLaggen.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Of course you know how to do that, why should I even be surprised? But I think whatever he was drinking and his little head injury will handle that for us… although, I hope he doesn't forget _everything_."

_He better remember to stay the fuck away form her,_ Draco thought angrily. _And me._

"I wish I could wipe him from _my_ memory," she said, wincing in pain as she tugged her dress back up her shoulders, her arms sore from McLaggen's grip.

"Bloody git—" she cursed.

Draco laughed out loud, albeit gently.

"You think this is funny—?"

"A little… the fucking wanker forces himself on you and the worst you can call him is 'bloody git'?"

"I save all my choice curse words for you, Malfoy. Plus, you already stunned him into next year. You didn't leave anything for me to do… shame, that," she brushed her hair from her face and shoulders and winced again at the pain in her arms where McLaggen had gripped her.

"I can think of innumerable fitting curses _and_ curse words for him— in fact, I have on many occasions— I've wanted to hex that smug grin right off his ugly face ever since Slughorn invited us to his train compartment…"

Draco trailed off as he watched her gently rub her upper arms, recognizing pain in her expression. His Dark Mark throbbed, as if he was somehow taking on some of her pain.

"Seriously, Granger? Aren't you supposed to be best in our year? Don't move," he said. Hermione watched his expression become very serious as he pointed his wand at her upper arm.

"Malfoy— what—?"

"I said don't move."

Hermione sighed, but obeyed. She felt the tip of Draco's wand on her now-throbbing arm and watched with curiosity as his eyes fluttered closed. Her pain vanished as he cast what she assumed was a silent healing spell.

"You've been practicing," she remarked with quiet approval as he healed her other arm.

Draco shrugged in silence and leaned against the stone wall behind them, closing his eyes again. Hermione did the same.

She briefly considered asking Malfoy to remove the platinum necklace, but couldn't bring herself to do so, so struck as she was by the unexpected pleasure of his company beside her in the hallway, by her still rapidly-beating heart. She didn't understand how it was possible Malfoy could make her feel this way, nor why... and with a numbing sort of shock, she realized she didn't want to know.

"Do me a favor, Granger…" Draco said, breaking the silence. "Don't let yourself end up anywhere alone with McLaggen ever again.… at least not without your wand in your hand."

Hermione opened her eyes and found him studying her intently.

"Why do you suddenly care, Malfoy?"

Draco was tired. He was tired of failure, desperation, of the pain of his Dark Mark, of Snape's reprimands, of the exhaustion of his Occlumency training, and schoolwork; he was tired of the Dark Lord, and the war that had barely even begun. Draco was tired of dealing with gits like McLaggen and Potter, of deception; and as he stared into Hermione's clear and searching golden brown eyes, as he inhaled her soft, warming scent, he was tired of lying to himself.

"I really don't know… but maybe it's the same reason you haven't told Potter and Weasley about what you've been up to on the seventh floor."

/

After saying her goodbyes to Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna the next morning and wishing them all a happy Christmas, she grabbed Harry's Cloak (which he'd purposefully left behind, along with the Marauders' Map, for her use), and rushed to the seventh floor corridor.

She hadn't told Harry or Ron anything she'd overheard between Malfoy and Snape, and she certainly hadn't mentioned her confrontation with McLaggen, nor how it had ended.

It was still early, and, from looking at the map, she knew Malfoy and Nott hadn't yet left the Slytherin dorms. She didn't have to wait long, however, before she noticed their dots on the map begin to make their way up toward the seventh floor. It appeared Crabbe and Goyle had returned home for the holiday; they were nowhere to be found.

Hermione waited patiently, hidden under the cloak, and heard Malfoy and Nott's familiar voices echo down the hall before she at last saw them round the corner.

They paused before the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy.

"You coming, Granger, or what?" Draco asked without turning around.

She didn't wonder how he knew she was waiting for them. She removed the cloak with one graceful motion and her eyes locked immediately with Draco's.

"Yes."

/

A/N: As always, thank you for reading!


	26. Christmas

/

She'd recognized the Vanishing Cabinet right away, connected it to its twin at Borgin and Burkes. Suddenly, the conversation she, Harry, and Ron had overheard between Borgin and Malfoy that day in Knockturn Alley made sense.

Hermione had her theories, and she suspected Nott did too, but neither could be positive _exactly_ what Malfoy planned to do once the Vanishing Cabinet was repaired.

IF _we can repair it,_ Hermione repeatedly corrected herself.

She leaned on this as a crutch— she didn't know for sure _why_ Malfoy wanted it repaired, and she planned to use this information— or rather, this _lack_ of information— to justify her decision to help them, should it ever come to that.

And she certainly hoped it never came to that.

Hermione knew that she was being naive, and rash, but for some reason, she couldn't even force herself to care enough to do anything but help them.

She had her doubts, and her regrets, and they were deep: she shouldn't be helping; she should've told Harry and Ron; she should alert Mr. Weasley and the Order, or Tonks at the very least; she should tell McGonagall and Dumbledore immediately.

But Hermione could not ignore the fact that her desire to help was so much stronger than any of her fears or doubts.

_I'm trying to save his life, and his mother's… and who knows who else's._ It was almost a little mantra she'd started repeating over and over as if to convince herself she was doing the right thing.

_Keep your enemies close— the more I know, the better I'll be able to help… and then I'll be able to stop Malfoy from doing whatever he's planning…_

She figured she might even be able to figure out how to fix the cabinet on her own, before Malfoy and Nott could. Then she would refrain from telling them, instead choosing to bring the information to Dumbledore instead.

"Where did you get all these books?" Hermione asked Nott, in awe as she scanned the enormous pile of rare and ancient tomes in what had become his and Draco's little study in the Room of Hidden Things. "Not in the library… and not in here, surely…"

"Greystoke Castle," Theo explained simply, as if this were a common fact.

"Greystoke…?"

"My house," Theo explained simply.

"Of course you live in a castle," Hermione said, rolling her eyes as she carefully turned the page of a text that looked as old as Hogwarts itself. "But you actually refer to it that way?"

Malfoy snorted.

"Oh, and 'The Burrow' is so much better. At least mine and Draco's don't make it sound like we live with a bunch of rodents."

"You bring up a good point, Theo. We can't deny the Burrow's got one good thing going for it— it's certainly aptly named."

"Shut up," Hermione snapped, her eyes never leaving the page opened before her.

"You also bring up a good point, Granger. I should have a look around here for books that might be helpful. Who knows what kind of material people have hidden in here over the years," Theo looked around the room as if he were seeing it for the first time. He wandered off, leaving Draco and Hermione alone.

Draco flipped through the book in front of him, unable to focus his attention enough to actually read anything.

He'd had some pretty awful ideas over the years, the Inquisitorial Squad was proof enough of that, but this one took the proverbial cake— _and it's a fucking enormous cake… thirty layers of buttercream, at least,_ Theo's voice chimed in his mind.

_This is a horrible, horrible idea,_ Draco thought as he stared at Hermione in consternation, as if he could simply will her away.

He'd told Theo so too, albeit with _different_ words, what felt like countless times over the past twenty-four hours, even though he _had_ reluctantly agreed to let Granger help….

_Not that Theo really gave me any choice,_ Draco mused in annoyance.

It was a small consolation, but he figured he'd be able to wipe Hermione's memory, if it came to that. He'd had plenty of practice with Crabbe and Goyle this term, and, much to his pleasure, he'd gotten the hang of it pretty quickly.

Draco watched Hermione's face in silence as she turned the page with obvious reverence. His attention traveled from her eyes— focused in concentration— to her lips— slightly parted— to her fingers. He remembered the way her hand had felt in his after their confrontation with McLaggen… warm and soft and trusting.

He was sure she _had_ trusted him last night, perhaps for the first time. He'd recognized it in her eyes, and had been drawn to the sight. Infuriatingly, he longed to see it again.

_I'm going to get us all killed…_

Draco wished Hermione had refused to help. Part of him even wished she had gone and told Potter and Dumbledore… and yet…

"How are your arms?" The words tumbled from his lips.

Hermione looked up in alarm. It was one thing for Malfoy to save her from McLaggen, which, she figured, had only been a side-effect of him using it as his opportunity to hex the git. Regardless, it was another thing entirely to casually inquire after her well-being.

"Why?" She asked suspiciously.

"Forget I asked, Granger," he replied, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning angrily into his chair.

She tilted her head, observing him.

"They're fine… better than McLaggen's head this morning, I can tell you that."

Draco couldn't help but smirk.

"Wish I'd broken his nose too… and his legs… and—"

"Thank you," Hermione interrupted. "For asking… and for helping me last night."

Warmth coursed through Draco, unbidden.

_No,_ he told himself as he tore his eyes away from her. _No._

"I should be thanking _you_ — gave me the perfect opportunity to give that prat what he deserves."

_I was right,_ Hermione thought joylessly, suddenly feeling a bit put-out. _He only cares that he got a chance to hex McLaggen._

She returned her attention to her book.

"Well—?" Draco asked expectantly, after a few minutes of studying her in silence as she read.

"Well what?" Hermione asked sweetly without looking up.

Draco sighed, "So this is my life now… suppose it's better than being dead—"

"Oi!" Theo called from somewhere in the room, "I've found a stash of sherry! And it's really good sherry, too!"

"On second thought…" Draco added in exasperation.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh out loud, and Draco could not contain his reluctant smile at the sound, and sight, of it.

"If you're asking if I think I can help, my answer is yes… but it's going to take time."

Draco frowned.

"We don't _have_ time."

"Look— Malfoy…"

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say!" exclaimed Hermione.

"Yes he does!" Theo called from parts unknown.

"Yes, I do," Draco echoed. "You're going to tell me to let Snape help me… yes, I know you overheard our little conversation," he added, seeing her expression of surprise. "Or you're going to tell me to go to Dumbledore, or some other arse. You're going to tell me I don't have to do this."

They stared at one another in equal stubbornness.

"You don't have to do this alone—"

"I meant what I said to Snape last night, Granger. The bastard might've made an Unbreakable Vow, and maybe it really was to protect me… but—"

"Maybe—" she tried again.

"No," Draco affirmed with cold resolution.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, her expression as stern as Draco's.

"You're as bad as Harry."

"Draco's much, much worse, I can assure you," Theo said, reappearing in their study area. He cleared a space on the expansive mahogany table they used for their research to make room for the sherry he'd found.

Draco balked and glanced wearily at the gold necklace glinting from Hermione's collar. "Don't compare me to that speckled git."

"Listen you two. We'll do plenty of research this week, without classes and speckled gits and greasy professors to get in our way. But let's also not forget it's bloody Christmas… and Merlin knows I could use some time off," Theo announced, uncorking a bottle of sherry to take in its aroma.

" _Our_ holiday starts the day after tomorrow— sundown, Christmas Eve. You can join me, or you can bugger off."

Hermione and Draco's eyes met in silent, and reluctant, agreement.

"You'll join us, won't you, Granger? No need to lock yourself up in that haughty tower all alone."

/

Hermione had managed to accurately translate more ancient Runes in two days than Theo and Draco had in two months.

"It's promising," Theo explained to Draco, who still took every opportunity to remind him what a horrendous idea it had been to involve Hermione.

"Lot of good it will do once she runs off and tells Potter… which she will."

"She's not going to tell him," Theo said for what he was sure was the hundredth time as they made their way back to the Room of Hidden Things. It was Christmas Eve, and the light outside the frosty castle windows was rapidly receding.

"How can you possibly know that? What if she _already_ wrote to him—"

Theo sighed heavily. Dealing with Draco and Hermione's stubbornness individually was one thing, but he quickly learned that their _combined_ stubbornness was wholly another. Plus, Theo was quick to admit, the strange tension that pushed and pulled and often exploded between the pair was driving him a bit barmy; after spending two whole days locked up in the same room with them, teaching trolls the ballet no longer seemed all that outlandish.

"I'm not talking about this anymore. Look—" Theo pointed outside the window. The sun was but a sliver on the snowy horizon. "Sundown. Christmas Eve. My holiday starts now. You can choose to enjoy yourself a bit or—" He paused as he spotted Hermione waiting for them outside the Room of Hidden Things, a cauldron in her arms.

"—Granger! You decided to join us after all," Theo exclaimed, shooting Draco a pointed look.

"Nott," she replied dryly. She barely glanced at Draco.

"Is that a cauldron full of hot, strong love— my favorite Celestina Warbeck classic, by the way, take note— or is that mulled wine I smell?"

"Are you already drunk?" Hermione asked, thinking perhaps she should've listened to her better judgement and stayed in Gryffindor Tower. But the thought of spending Christmas all alone was just too much to bear.

"I wish!" Theo announced. "But I certainly plan to be as soon as possible," he winked at her as they entered the vast, cluttered room. "You dressed up, Granger. For us? How sweet."

Hermione looked down at her dark green dress (which, she now noted with dismay, was nearly the same color Malfoy's robes had been at Slughorn's party), suddenly self-conscious. Her choice in clothing was not nearly as formal as what she'd worn to Slughorn's party, but she wouldn't deny she'd chosen her dress with purpose.

She and her parents always put a bit more effort into their attire on Christmas Eve. She smiled at the thought of her dad's brown leather loafers, the ones he painstakingly polished each Christmas Eve morning. She missed her parents dearly, and wondered what on earth she'd done to end up spending her Christmas with Malfoy and Nott.

_You chose this,_ a voice reminded her as she and Malfoy followed Nott through the room.

_Oh… right._

Hermione noted that Theo and Draco had also dressed for the occasion, although, she admitted, they always seemed to be dressed more formally than the other students in the castle. Irritably, she wondered how Draco always managed to look so put together; his clothes always seemed to be tailored just right, elongating his legs and highlighting the lean muscles in his chest and arms.

He glanced in her direction and she felt her cheeks warm. She shook her head and tried to divert her attention elsewhere.

As Theo led them through the narrow passageways of hidden things, Draco tried and failed to deny his wholehearted approval of Hermione's choice in attire. His fingertips tingled with the irritating urge to reach out to touch the soft, velvety fabric of her dress.

As they rounded a towering corinthian column wrapped in variously colored scarves, Hermione's jaw dropped; three shimmering place settings had been meticulously laid out on a small table, the surface of which was otherwise completely covered with warm, flickering candles and boughs of holly and pine. A large Christmas tree stood beside the table, spectacularly decorated in silver and gold.

"Sprock!" Nott called, and Hermione looked to Malfoy in confusion.

Draco merely took his spot at the table and busied himself with a Christmas cracker as if he were sitting down to any old meal in the Great Hall.

"He's got to be around here somewhere…" Theo mumbled.

"Yes, Master Theodore?"

Hermione nearly dropped her cauldron of mulled wine in shock as a house-elf appeared at Theo's elbow, as if out of thin air.

The elf was undoubtedly very old, his wrinkles and sparse tuft of gray hair rather prominent, but his gait was surprisingly spry. The tiniest pair of glasses Hermione had ever seen graced the long bridge of his nose. She wondered darkly if Sprock had been one of the survivors at Greystoke Castle after Theo's father had discovered his son had been freeing them.

"Sprock, meet Hermione Granger. Granger— this is Sprock. He's in charge of managing Greystoke Castle while I'm away—"

"While you're away?" Draco mumbled. "More like _all_ the time."

"—and Sprock, you remember my dear prat of a friend Draco—?"

Draco saluted in unimpressed silence from across the room, and Sprock returned the greeting with a curt, silent bow.

"Ah, yes, young Master Malfoy… this prat Sprock of course knows better than he would like," the elf replied smoothly.

Draco scowled and Theo smirked. Hermione tried not to gape.

The elf then turned to Hermione, scrutinizing her in such a way that reminded her oddly of Nott.

"Sprock, it's a pleasure to meet you," she said in earnest, smiling.

Sprock's grin spread slowly across his wrinkled face.

"Sprock sees not _all_ of your friends are as disrespectful as _some_ ," he said, and Hermione did not miss the very pointed glance he shot Malfoy's way.

_Malfoy's really got a way of making an impression wherever he goes…_ she thought, trying not to laugh.

Malfoy pretended not to notice, and Theo's smirk only widened.

"Well done, Master Theodore."

Hermione beamed at the compliment.

"Did you set this up, Sprock?" she asked, realization dawning on her. "It's beautiful."

Sprock bowed low, much lower than he had for Malfoy. "You are too kind. And please, Miss, let Sprock take your cauldron."

"Oh— be careful, it's very hot… and thank you," Hermione smiled gratefully as Sprock gratefully received the cauldron of mulled wine and made a spot for it on the table, making sure to glare at Malfoy as he did so.

Hermione neared the Christmas tree to appreciate its trimmings more fully, taking a deep, slow breath of pine and cinnamon. It was the loveliest decorated tree she had ever seen— even more fine than the towering pines in the Great Hall. It glimmered and hummed with perfectly coordinated silver and gold baubles; twinkling lights of various sizes glowed warmly from every crevice.

She felt tears well in the corners of her eyes; she missed her parents, and Harry and Ron, and the Weasleys. She imagined them all now, sitting by the fire at the Burrow without her, and she pictured her parents at home, sipping the same mulled wine they'd sent her— the very same she'd emptied into the cauldron to share with Malfoy and Nott— and her heart ached.

She couldn't help but wonder if she'd ever get to spend Christmas with them again, if perhaps _this_ would be her last Christmas.

Sprock busied himself setting a string quartet and piano forte into motion with a snap of his fingers, and the room resonated with the gentle, dulcet sounds of Christmas songs.

Theo eagerly popped open a bottle of the sherry he'd found. "I know sherry's customary for dessert— but Merlin, it's Christmas."

Draco ignored Theo. His thoughts strayed far from the anger and doubt that had plagued him the last few days as he watched Hermione with curiosity and admiration. It was odd to see another witch or wizard be as respectful to a house elf as Theo, and, as painful as it was to admit it, he recognized that it was even more rare to see a sight as captivating as the one of Hermione standing by the tree, her golden brown eyes and hair capturing the warm glow of the twinkling baubles and lights.

His heart ached; he missed home. Growing up, Christmas at Malfoy Manor had always been a spectacle, a show of wealth and status, which Draco had never really minded. In fact, he wouldn't deny he'd relished it, but in truth, his most cherished moments were late Christmas Eve nights, which his mother had always set aside just for the three of them— he and his father on their best behavior for her— those rare evenings had been special, and warm… they'd been a family then.

Noting his friend's trance, Theo coughed, and Draco quickly looked away.

"Miss Granger, would you please join Master Theodore and Master Malfoy for dinner?"

"Oh—" She hastily wiped at her eyes. "Of course."

Sprock pulled out her chair, then tucked it behind her as she sat down. Hermione was reminded of the way Nott had done the same for her at one of Slughorn's suppers. If someone had told her then that she'd be spending Christmas with Nott and Malfoy, she would've certainly told them to bugger off.

Sprock served them each a glass of mulled wine before she even had a chance to serve it herself.

"It's from my parents," she explained simply, smiling as she took a sip of the familiar, warming beverage her mother made each Christmas.

"Sprock does not recognize the vintage, it neither seems elf- nor wizard-made."

"Granger's parents are Muggles," Theo explained plainly, and Sprock's eyes widened.

Hermione swallowed nervously, thinking of Kreacher's prejudice against Muggle-borns like herself. She hoped Sprock would not react similarly to this information.

"Master Nott Senior must never know— imagine his face if he discovered even a drop of Muggle wine had graced his crystal… or that a Muggle-born witch ate from his fine china…" Sprock and Theo's eyes met in silence. A tense moment passed before they simultaneously burst into raucous laughter.

Hermione glanced at Malfoy in alarm. Malfoy gave her an unamused gesture that told Hermione he was used to this sort of thing.

"Oh— it hurts!" Theo announced, gasping for breath through his laughter. "I'd pay a thousand, no— _ten_ thousand galleons to see that!"

"Master Theodore, Sprock speaks out of turn, please forgive an old elf…"

"Bah!" Theo said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "Sorry, Granger… just having a laugh."

"Yes, Miss Granger, Sprock meant no disrespect, no… this elf does not share the same prejudices as his more senior master, oh, no…"

"Oh, er—" Hermione sputtered, beyond surprised at Nott and Sprock's relationship, even though she knew Theo had led a freedom crusade in his home when he was only eight. He showed more respect for Sprock than Harry and Ron had ever seemed to manage for Dobby, and most certainly more than they'd ever showed Kreacher.

"Can we eat now? I'm starving."

Theo, Sprock, and Hermione all glared at Draco with matching scowls.

"Sometimes Sprock does wonder about you, young Master Malfoy…"

"You and me both, Sprock," Theo added.

"Sorry," Draco mumbled as he took a sip of mulled wine. He mused it was both powerful and warm, not unlike the girl who'd brought it.

"Perhaps young Master Malfoy should spend more time with Miss Granger—"

Theo choked on his drink.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, and Hermione hid her smirk behind her glass.

"Dinner is served," Sprock announced smoothly, undeterred, and a veritable feast appeared before them.

"Won't you join us, Sprock?" Hermione asked as Theo and Draco wasted no time serving themselves.

Sprock chuckled, "Oh no, Miss Granger, but this elf appreciates the thought. There is much for Sprock to do at home. Master Theodore, it has been a pleasure, as always. Enjoy… and happy Christmas."

The elf disappeared with a 'pop.'

"Well, you made _his_ Christmas, Granger."

"Me?" Hermione asked incredulously as she helped herself to yorkshire pudding.

"The elf loves flattery," Draco explained simply. "It's why he can't stand me."

"He appreciates _respect,_ Malfoy— and a little thing called common decency…" Theo finished the last bit of sherry in his glass before switching to Hermione's mulled wine.

"Nott, you know that's a completely foreign concept for him—" she added with a coy grin.

Theo again coughed on his drink in amusement and Malfoy shot her a scathing look.

"You see, Granger, _Master Theodore_ here was all but raised by Sprock and his legion of house elves—"

"It certainly explains your behavior—" Hermione interjected.

Draco laughed out loud and Theo scowled.

"I meant it as a _good_ thing—" Hermione exclaimed. "You respect Sprock. And why shouldn't you? Just because he's a house-elf?"

Theo nodded in satisfaction, grinning smugly at Draco.

"Most pureblood families are downright bigoted and cruel toward house elves," Theo explained matter-of-factly. "Exhibit 'A' for arsehole here," he nodded his head toward Draco.

Hermione immediately remembered the way Sirius had treated Kreacher.

Kreacher wasn't necessarily _kind_ , and the elf had inherited prejudices of his own, but she'd witnessed Sirius display an unfounded, often outright cruelty, toward the elf more than once. Ron, too ha made it clear he considered elves lesser beings.

"I know. It's one of the reasons I started S.P.E.W."

There was a clatter as Theo and Draco dropped their cutlery to stare open-mouthed at Hermione in concern.

"Spew?" Draco asked.

"Yes. Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. I started it in fourth year after I saw how unjustly house-elves were treated at the Quidditch World Cup."

Draco shook his head in disbelief and smirked lopsidedly with reluctant amusement. _First Theo, now Granger. Where am I?_ He wondered. _And what did I do to deserve this?_

"Look," Theo said as he took a bite of mashed potato, "I'm all for the— what did you call it?— the promotion of elfish welfare… but S.P.E.W.? Really, Granger? You racked that big brain of yours, and the best you came up with was spew…? The action I experience every time I see Weasley's stupid face, or when I'm forced to listen to you and Draco argue?"

She smiled reluctantly, "Well… yes. If you think of a better name, you get back to me. Perhaps you can ask for Sprock's input."

Draco held back a laugh and Theo scowled.

The rest of dinner was spent in a spirited, and undeniably comical, debate concerning the magical powers of house-elves, the mulled wine disappearing rapidly, only to be replaced again and again with more mulled wine of a different variety, no doubt thanks to Sprock.

They savored Christmas pudding, the most delicious treacle tarts Hermione had ever eaten, and the sherry Theo had found over a few rounds of Exploding Snap and one rather heated game of Gobbstones that ended with Theo dangling mid-air from his ankle, shouting obscenities at Draco, who stood on the floor below, bent over in laughter.

Hermione wasn't sure if it was the wine or something more, but she was startled to find that she was not only enjoying herself, but she rather felt like she was spending Christmas Eve with _friends…_

Hermione also found herself unable to tear her eyes away from Draco's confident, handsome grin more than once, including now, as he at last unceremoniously lowered Theo to the ground.

_Definitely too much wine,_ she thought, tearing her eyes away.

"How about a tune, Draco? It wouldn't be Christmas without it," Theo proclaimed after he had righted himself and poured himself another glass of sherry.

Draco frowned. He'd spied the piano in the Room of Hidden things countless times now, even sat with his fingertips upon the keys, but the thought of playing was just too painful.

He shook his head, hiding his pained expression as he took a sip from his glass.

Hermione looked between them both, surprised into silence by this new information.

"C'mon, mate, a few carols. You would keep the gift of my voice from Granger like that? And on Christmas?"

"I'm sparing her the _agony_ of your voice."

Hermione laughed quietly and Theo grinned.

"I'd like to hear you play… I'm having a hard time believing it," Hermione said, grinning.

"You've got to play now, Draco, that sounds like a challenge to me," replied Theo, winking at Hermione.

Draco sighed heavily and sat himself in front of the piano, taking over for Sprock's enchantment. He was no master, but he certainly considered himself proficient, even if he'd been playing less and less the last few years. He couldn't deny his urge to play, even now, when the thought of Christmas at the Manor— of his mother— was so painful.

As promised, Theo accompanied Draco's playing with his own unabashed caroling.

Hermione hummed or sang along in places (or gasped for breaths between laughter at the rather _unique_ flourishes in Theo's vocal performance).

Draco too eventually found himself smiling, caught up in the moment and the joy he felt with his hands on the keys once more. He even joined in a chorus or two.

Hermione felt like she was caught in the middle of some absurd, yet strangely wonderful, dream.

Draco's eyes strayed again and again to Hermione's bright smile and the rosy glow of her cheeks, and he felt as though he'd gotten the chance to live someone else's life for a night— a freer, happier one. For the first time in a long time, he felt at ease just being himself.

He was quite sure he was well and drunk now.

"A lot of pureblood families go on and on about how they despise anything Muggle," Theo explained, his cheeks flushed from drink, as Draco took a break from playing. "But for some bloody reason we just can't get enough of their Christmas carols and classical instruments."

Hermione was not shocked to hear this information, it seemed to be the familiar sort of pureblood hypocrisy she'd witnessed many times before, but she could not get over her surprise at Malfoy's adeptness behind the keys.

"Scoot over," she announced, and sat beside Draco on the narrow bench, the wine and sherry definitely giving a boost to her confidence.

Draco regarded her with curious surprise, one eyebrow raised.

"What—?" She smirked. "You think you're the only one who knows how to play?"

It wasn't a complete lie; she _had_ taken lessons as a girl.

"Well, if you insist, Granger. Do you know _'In the Bleak Midwinter?'_ " Draco asked as Theo poured Ogden's Special Reserve— courtesy of Sprock— into his waiting lowball glass.

"Of course," Hermione replied. It was one of her favorites. "I might be a little rusty though," she admitted.

Truthfully, it'd been years since she'd last played it, and in reality, her piano playing was in fact entirely limited to only the most familiar Christmas carols.

_But he doesn't know that,_ she considered with a smirk.

Theo sighed, shaking his head. He'd heard Draco play the familiar carol at Malfoy Manor at Christmastime nearly every year they'd been alive. He was almost certain it was Narcissa's favorite.

_If he wants to torture himself, so be it,_ Theo thought just before he tapped his glass against Draco's and they downed their Ogden's in unison.

Draco smirked as he turned to face Hermione again. Piano lessons had been forced upon him from the age of three.

_But she doesn't know that._

"We'll manage," he replied cooly.

Theo settled into a cushy high-backed chair with yet another glass of Ogden's as Draco began the slow, familiar tune. Hermione followed suit, her fingers gentle and a bit unsure on the keys. Seemingly of its own volition, one of the violins Sprock had animated sprung back to life in accompaniment.

Draco and Hermione sang the poignant melody together— their voices soft and tentative yet surprisingly complimentary:

_"_ _In the bleak midwinter_

_Frosty wind made moan,_

_Earth stood hard as iron,_

_Water like a stone;_

_Snow had fallen,_

_Snow on snow,_

_In the bleak midwinter,_

_Long ago."_

As if on cue, a light snow began to fall inside the room, forming a shimmering cloud of reflected golden light over Draco and Hermione.

Theo watched in awed silence, mesmerized, as if he were in the middle of some fevered dream. He listened to Draco and Hermione find their stride together.

_"_ _Angels and archangels_

_May have gathered there,_

_Cherubim and seraphim_

_Thronged the air,_

_But only His mother_

_In her maiden bliss,_

_Worshipped the Beloved_

_With a kiss."_

Theo felt a growing constriction around his heart and lungs and could watch no longer. He wordlessly rose from his seat, glass in hand, and wandered drunkenly through the passageways of hidden things.

Draco and Hermione's duet faded into a haunting echo, and, with a tightness in his chest, he knew the events of this night would likewise remain hidden.

" _What can I give you,_

_Poor as I am?_

_If I were a shepherd_

_I would bring a lamb,_

_If I were a wise man_

_I would do my part,_

_Yet what can I give you,_

_Give my heart."_

Even as their voices faded and their fingers left the keys to stillness, the charmed violin continued on, soft and low and stirring.

Draco and Hermione's eyes found one another's; light gray and golden brown.

They were defenseless. Every skill and strategy Draco had learned from his Occlumency lessons vanished, and every protective wall Hermione had built up in her mind and around her heart crumbled.

All the painful memories they had of each other suddenly seemed so very, very long ago— from a different life. The world and the war beyond the halo of falling snow disappeared for a moment, and they saw each other, understood one another, truly, as they were now, for the first time.

"You shouldn't be here," Draco whispered so quietly that if Hermione hadn't seen his lips moving she couldn't have been sure he'd spoken anything at all.

"Neither should you," she breathed. "But we are."

The violin floated to the floor, its song complete. They gazed at each other in silence, the lightly falling snow catching in their hair and eyelashes.

Out of the silence, at least a dozen clocks, out of sync, tolled midnight.

/

/

A/N: This may be my favorite chapter of this fic, even though it took me ages to write and edit. Thank you so much for reading! A special thanks to those who take the time to review, your thoughts mean so much to me!


	27. Deletrius

/

Consciousness prodded at Draco while his head throbbed against the inside of his eyelids. Through the discomfort came an overpowering warmth, however, an overwhelmingly pleasurable softness. Draco stirred and buried his head into his pillow, inhaling deeply, losing himself in a gentle floral scent that intermingled with a bit of pine and a familiar warmth…

"Morning, sunshine."

Draco winced at the unwelcome voice as it tore him away from his languid half-slumber.

He grudgingly blinked his eyes open against the morning light, and regretted to find Theo's smug expression swimming into view. Even the two steaming mugs of coffee grasped in each of his hands did not dull the ache of Draco's reluctant wakefulness.

"—fuck—" Draco croaked as he became conscious of his surroundings. He couldn't remember _when_ exactly, but as he realized he was not in his dorm, he recalled that he'd fallen asleep in the Room of Hidden Things, atop an uneven pile of old feather mattresses.

He wiped at his eyes and looked down to find that his pillow, the one he'd lost himself within, had not been a pillow at all— but Granger's sweater.

He tossed it aside, as if it had burned him.

"Happy Christmas to you, too," Theo said, his smugness deepening at the sight of Draco's discomposure, and the placement of Hermione's sweater. "Sleep well?"

"Bugger off, Nott."

"Is that a way to talk to someone who brought you coffee? And on Christmas morning, too. Sprock was so right about your manners— but I hardly think spending more time with Granger's _sweater_ is going to improve them…"

Draco sighed, too hungover for a witty retort. Wordlessly, he roughly grabbed one of the cups of coffee from Theo's hand. The aroma was sobering, but he was irritated to find that he much preferred the scent of Hermione's sweater.

He brought the cup to his lips, and nearly gagged as he took a sip.

"Ogden's—? Really, Theo? I think you might have a problem."

"Yeah, you took _my_ cup— _that's_ my problem," Theo announced as he switched mugs with Draco. He took a long, noisy sip of the spiked coffee, then made a sound of deep satisfaction. "Better than any sweater, I'll tell you that…"

Draco ignored him. "What did the elf make up for us this morning?"

"Oh, the usual…"

They made their way around a staggering wall of yellowed _Daily Prophets_ and _Witch Weekly_ magazines to the same table and Christmas tree that had been laid out by Sprock the night before, again finely decorated with warm flickering candles, boughs of holly and pine, and three pristine settings. The tree, too, was the same, save for the silver and gold-wrapped presents now adorning its base.

Draco saw Hermione already sitting at the table, sipping her own mug of coffee— he figured most likely sans Ogden's. Much to his irritation, her hair was tied up in a messy, infuriatingly charming knot, the gold flecks in her eyes directed in keen concentration on the book laid out before her.

"It's not polite to stare, Draco," Theo muttered knowingly before taking a seat at the table.

Draco _had_ been staring. He blamed it on his still-recovering mental acuity, and hastily took the open seat across from Hermione.

Theo coughed and Hermione looked up from her book in alarm, clearly realizing only now that she was no longer alone.

"Oh—" she said, flustered. Hermione looked to Theo, then Draco, whose hair, she noted (much to her consternation), was tousled from sleep in an infuriatingly charming way. "Er— happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas," Draco mumbled, trying to keep himself busy with his steaming mug of coffee, which had thankfully just refilled itself.

"Well, it _is_ a happy Christmas, indeed— I'd even call it a Christmas miracle. We've somehow managed _not_ to kill each other after spending three whole days locked up in this room together."

Theo would never admit it, but it truly _had_ been a happy Christmas for him, one of the best he'd had in a long time, maybe ever. He and his father never missed the Malfoys' grand Christmas Eve celebration, but— beyond his and Sprock's quick gift exchange in the kitchens of Greystoke Castle each Christmas night— the party at Malfoy Manor had always been the extent of the Nott family's celebration of the holiday— his father certainly disagreed with merry-making of any kind… unless it was of the Muggle-torturing variety, of course.

"Don't count your dragons before they hatch, Nott," Hermione said, glancing quickly at Draco before brining her mug to her lips.

"I've got to agree with you on this one, Granger," Draco added tiredly.

"See— we're even _agreeing_ on things now, caroling together, and playing duets…"

Hermione and Draco's eyes met for an uncomfortable instant before they both looked hastily away.

"…lets owl Bathilda Bagshot, shall we? We're making history here…"

Draco and Hermione glared at him.

Theo grinned. "I wonder what's keeping Sprock this morning? I hope the ghoul that lives in one of the floos on the east wing isn't acting up again—"

As Hermione opened her mouth to make a witty retort about Theo's comically privileged concern, a feast materialized before them; plates piled high with eggs, bowls of perfectly proportioned slivers and slices of fruit, platters of rows of steaming bacon and sausage, and neat, tiered stacks of baked goods emanating the mouth-watering aromas of honey, cinnamon, and vanilla.

Hermione stared in disbelief. It was certainly a far cry from any Christmas breakfast she'd had before, whether with her parents or at the Burrow. And if this was Malfoy and Nott's _sedated_ version of Christmas, she could hardly imagine what Christmas at Malfoy Manor and Greystoke Castle must be like.

"I know this is probably a pointless question, but do you two spend every Christmas so extravagantly?"

Draco and Theo looked to one another, grinning with equal amusement.

"Thinking you could get used to this, Granger?" Draco smirked lopsidedly as he pictured Hermione— messy bun, enormous book, steaming mug, and all— sharing Christmas morning with him at Malfoy Manor, opening presents beside the opulent, yet elegant tree in their drawing room. He felt his chest constrict with an odd mixture of a powerful sort of longing and a deep regret.

He shook his head internally; Draco reasoned he was definitely still drunk from last night… or he was losing his mind.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

It had all been a bit _much—_ in both quality and quantity— from the decorations and the music to the food and the presents now under the tree. But she couldn't deny she was deeply curious… and she was even more reluctant to admit that their strange and unexpected Christmas had, in truth, been nothing short of wonderful.

"It's okay to admit it, Granger. You'd have to be mental _not_ to appreciate the… er— elegance? opulence? Help me here, Draco—"

"It's called class, Granger," Draco replied, his tone unbothered. "And it's no wonder you're in awe of it— what a foreign concept for you."

Hermione glared at Draco, but found it very difficult to be upset as she took a bite of what was definitely the most delicious cinnamon bun she'd ever tasted.

"Here—" Theo announced as he got up from his seat and retrieved a gold-wrapped gift, only to place it in Hermione's lap. "Open something, before Draco ruins breakfast."

For some reason, Theo found he could not bear the thought of a conflict this morning.

Hermione was confused. She knew she had presents from her parents and the Weasleys waiting for her in Gryffindor Tower, but not in her wildest imagination did she ever consider she'd receive a Christmas gift from Theodore Nott.

She noted Malfoy too looked on with suspicion.

"From Sprock," Nott shrugged. "I told you he likes you."

Hermione slowly unwrapped the gift with deep curiosity and caution, as if it may attack her.

Draco was deeply intrigued, knowing it was highly unlikely Sprock alone had decided to give Hermione a Christmas gift; first, because the elf truly had no real possessions of his own, and secondly, he wouldn't be so bold as to give a gift to a witch or wizard without Theo's permission. He watched Hermione unwrap the gift out of the corner of his eye and saw a book emerge beneath the wrappings.

"' _Magical and Muggle Confrontation and Concord,_ '" Hermione announced, her interest piqued as she ran her hand over the cover of what was clearly a very old book. "I've never heard of it."

"That's because it's banned by the Ministry," Theo explained as he munched on a bite of toast.

"Banned?" Hermione replied, now eying the book wearily, as if it might bite her.

"Why?" asked Draco.

"Because it tells the truth— the _real_ truth— about Muggle and Wizarding confrontations and cooperation over the ages… and believe me, it rarely paints a pretty picture, especially for us magic folk— even the cooperation bits."

Hermione was shocked to imagine this particular book in Greystoke Castle, what she assumed was the generational home of a long-standing pureblood family. She reasoned Sprock must have kept his possession of such a book secret.

"Please tell Sprock I said thank you," Hermione said earnestly, truly looking forward to reading it. "I wish I had something to give him."

"The way you treated him was gift enough, believe me," Theo said. "Plus, he's been in quite good spirits lately… let's just say he's been living his best life since my father's been— er… preoccupied."

Draco barely refrained from rolling his eyes in annoyance.

He knew the book was not from Sprock at all, but from _Theo_ — from Greystoke Castle's library— expansive as it was, it contained all sorts of reading material, banned and otherwise. Draco was certain it was a book Theo himself had read, and probably more than once.

The rest of breakfast was spent in relative quiet as they finished eating, Hermione flipping through her new book, Draco doing his best not to glance over at her each time she turned a page.

"I'll be back later this afternoon for more research," Hermione announced as their plates disappeared.

She rubbed her arms, a chill settling over her. She longed for the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room. Plus, she had no desire to sit and watch Nott and Malfoy open their gifts; that was a line she didn't feel as though she was ready to cross… not without the help of some mulled wine or Ogden's, at any rate.

_The past twenty-four hours have been strange enough,_ she mused as she again remembered the way she and Draco had— in the warm, inviting haze of intoxication— sat side-by-side in a sort of silent understanding after their piano duet, the way— together— their combined magic had made it snow.

Hermione remembered the sight of his light gray eyes, bright and clear, focused on her, unflinching.

She suddenly recognized she hadn't made anything easier for herself by agreeing to spend Christmas with Draco and Theo. She was beginning to wonder how she'd ever be able to deceive them, to spin the situation around, to gain control… and to make the right choices when the time came.

"Don't forget to check on Fe— the potion… on your way—" said Theo, only just catching his near slip.

Draco looked between Theo and Hermione with suspicion; he knew there was no way they were working on Draught of Living Death. With Theo and Hermione's skill, he was sure it would've been done already.

_What potion could they_ possibly _be making?_ He wondered in frustration.

"You don't need to remind me, Nott. How many times do I have to tell you?"Hermione asked rhetorically as she rose from her seat.

"Oh— have either of you seen my sweater?" she asked, again rubbing her arms for warmth. "I thought I left it around here somewhere."

Theo snorted and Draco shot him a look that clearly said, _'Not a fucking word, Nott. Not a fucking word.'_

/

Hermione knew something was horribly wrong the moment she stepped into the cramped storeroom where she and Theo kept their in-progress Felix Felicis. It was as if all the light in the room had been snuffed out, encapsulated in some kind of vacuum.

"Lumos," she gasped, finding it difficult to breathe. Hermione's wand illuminated brightly, but it cut through the darkness only a little, barely enough for her to find her way to their three cauldrons.

"No, no, no—" she whispered to herself in fear as she wandered through the darkness. She knew Felix Felicis could be deadly if brewed incorrectly— the current constriction of her lungs was proof enough of that— but she wasn't about to let all their hard work go to waste.

At last, her wand tip found the source of the expanding darkness.

One of the cauldrons was boiling over with thick, inky-black smoke. She coughed with every inhalation.

Hermione knew the temperature in the room was not to blame; she and Theo had been keeping a close eye on it ever since the day of their fumble with the open window. She checked the flame beneath the cauldron, straining to see through the dense fog, and noticed nothing seemed amiss there either.

_Occamy eggshell…_ she thought frantically, scrambling to find Theo's potions kit. He was supposed to have added the ingredient yesterday morning. _Maybe he didn't add enough…_

The smoke was as opaque as Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, and it took Hermione a few agonizing minutes before her shaking hands found the bottle of crushed Occamy eggshells at last.

Nauseous and gasping for air, she weighed the ingredient as best as she was able before hurrying back to add it to the potion. Her eyes burned.

_Don't pass out,_ she told herself.

The moment the shells hit the surface of the liquid, the rapidly billowing smoke ceased, but the room was as congested as ever.

"Deletrius!" Hermione croaked. The foul haze dissipated, her line of sight now clear.

She saw two of the cauldrons bubbling gently, their contents a matching shade of a light blue sky. To Hermione's utter dismay, she saw that the third cauldron, the one that had billowed thick, black smoke only moments ago, was now entirely empty.

"Finite Incantatem," Hermione whispered emotionlessly, extinguishing the flame beneath the empty cauldron.

She stared at the barren cauldron in silence, and felt as though her world was crashing down around her.

_Two left…_

Truthfully, she knew that the failed potion was hardly the source of her pain.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she buried her head in her hands as a raw, choked sob escaped her throat.

_What am I doing?_ Hermione asked herself.

She felt as though she was drowning under the weight of every lie she'd told Harry and Ron this term, her deception and choices now suffocating her as if a thick, black smoke. She recounted them all: the scar on her collarbone, Felix Felicis and Nott, the Room of Requirement— and Hidden Things— the little yellow bird, Slughorn's party, research for the cabinet, and— worst of all— Malfoy…

Hermione slumped to the floor, her cheeks wet with tears. She knew she couldn't lie to herself any longer.

She wasn't sure when it had happened, but she was sure of it now— she _could_ tell Harry and Ron, even McGonagall or Dumbledore… but she didn't _want_ to. And she hated herself for it.

Hermione understood now that she _wanted_ to help Draco. She wanted him to live… to see his gray eyes shine clear and bright.

And, worse than that, she could not ignore her longing for what she'd felt as she'd sat beside Draco, hidden away in a place only they knew, lost in a shimmering cloud of snow their combined magic had created.

/

"Greyback's been spending a lot of time at Borgin and Burkes, but I can't fathom what business he has there," Lupin said, running his hand tiredly through his already disheveled hair.

"Curious," Snape replied, his eyes darkening a fraction as he pondered this new information.

It was New Years Eve in Spinner's End, and Snape and Lupin each sat in a hard-backed chair on either side of the hearth the small sitting room of Snape's home. The heavy curtains were drawn, blocking the dim greenish light from the street-lamps lining the crooked lane outside, but the flames in the hearth elongated the matching shadows beneath their eyes.

"What use does a werewolf have with Dark objects?" Snape mused aloud, his eyes flickering toward the flames.

Lupin frowned.

"I wonder if he's acting on behalf of someone else— Voldemort himself?"

"Perhaps," Snape drawled. "He's had business with the Dark Lord at Malfoy Manor."

The wizards sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts. Their reveries were suddenly interrupted by a soft knock at the front door, however.

Lupin turned to look at Severus through narrowed eyes. "Expecting someone?"

Snape did not answer his old schoolmate. He stood and glided to the door, his careful footsteps all but silent on the worn floorboards.

He opened the door to a rush of frigid air, and was not surprised to find Andromeda Tonks on the other side, her breath rising in white puffs of air, her face obscured by the hood of her cloak.

They nodded at one another in silence and Andromeda entered. Snape closed the door behind her and beckoned her into the sitting room.

Lupin looked up in curiosity at this new arrival. Andromeda lowered her hood and met his gaze with stony resolution. Lupin's eyes widened in recognition, and he stood abruptly, his chair wobbling behind him with the force of his sudden movement.

"I'm leaving," he said coldly, making his way toward the door.

Snape stepped beside Andromeda, blocking Lupin's path.

"I told you this would not go well," he said dryly.

Andromeda glared at Snape, then turned her attention back to Lupin.

"Please, Remus— stay. I beg you to hear what I have to say."

"I've read your letters— all of them. And Ted's too. But my decision has not changed. Nothing you say will change my mind."

Snape sighed heavily and resumed his position in his chair by the fire. Lupin turned to address him.

"You can't possibly agree with them, Severus."

"I neither agree nor disagree. In fact, I wish to have no part in this whatsoever. But Andromeda's persistence has gotten the better of me, and I have agreed to this meeting with the vague hope of putting an end to this nonsense," Snape's tone left no room for argument.

Lupin's crossed his arms over his chest, as if he'd been reprimanded as though he were a student in Snape's class.

"Please listen, Remus. Nymphadora—" Andromeda began again.

Lupin's eyes softened at the mention of her daughters name.

"—she loves you. And I'm sure you know by now that she's as stubborn as they come. You can blame me for that."

"She'll move on eventually— she's young. She'll be happier… without me," Lupin said weakly.

Andromeda sighed. "I wish she would… not that I don't think you're a good man, Remus. Because there's no denying it— you _are_ a good man. Good enough even for my daughter. A fool could see how much you care for her. But it seems you are suffering from a lapse of foolishness— to think she will recover from this. Perhaps you don't know her as well as I thought."

Lupin's expression pained at Andromeda's comment.

"I— I can't, Andromeda."

"No," Andromeda refuted firmly. "You can, but you've decided you won't. You claim it's to protect her, but can't you see she's suffering, Remus? Nymphadora is a shadow of her former self without you," Andromeda said, her heart aching at the thought of her daughter's pain. "A mother's love is powerful, but even I have no power here."

"I came here tonight to ask you— to beg you— one last time to reconsider… for Nymphadora."

"I—" Lupin stuttered, glancing at Snape— who still sat disinterestedly by the hearth— then back to Andromeda, his eyes wide, his posture deflated.

"I must go. I promised Harry I'd be at the Burrow for New Years."

Lupin threw his overcoat over his shoulder and hurried past Andromeda, escaping into the front hall. Andromeda and Snape heard the front door latch shut behind him.

Andromeda again sighed heavily and joined Snape beside the fire.

"I tried," she said tiredly.

Snape nodded silently, never looking away from the flickering flames.

"Thank you for arranging this, Severus."

"Remus is a fool. He always has been."

Andromeda glanced at Snape's impassive expression and sighed again; she just wanted her daughter back. She wanted Nymphadora to be happy.

"How does Draco progress?" Snape asked, turning to face her at last.

Andromeda wouldn't deny she appreciated the change in subject.

"He is a natural, Severus."

_Just like his mother,_ Andromeda thought. "He's already resisting my attempts at Legilimency with increased frequency."

"It may be his saving grace… if he is given the chance, of course," Snape replied.

Andromeda did not need to ask what he meant, his grave tone explanation enough.

_Will Narcissa be given the same chance?_ She wondered.

Andromeda had been distracted all throughout the holiday by a dizzying array of pain and uncertainty; the progress of her patient— which had been marked, but whose true identity and background was still a mystery— Nymphadora's pain and— perhaps worst of all— what she'd seen in Draco's mind, the image of her sister's agony replayed over and over.

"He progresses quickly. He's already surpassed what many of my fellows are able to do. Draco will be competent with Occlumency in no time."

Severus nodded in silence.

"You are distracted," he said plainly. "But I can not see why. You do not seem to doubt Draco's abilities… and nor do I. He was able to conceal much from me the night of Horace's party," Snape said, uttering the word 'party' as if it were the name of some wretched disease.

Andromeda hesitated. She still did not trust Snape, but her growing concern for her sister was overpowering her mistrust.

"It's Nymphadora of course… and one of my patient's at St. Mungo's. I believe we are nearing a breakthrough."

"I sense that is not all."

"No," Andromeda agreed, relenting. "It's Narcissa. I— I worry for her life."

She saw the corner of Snape's mouth twitch— a giveaway of surprise to Andromeda's trained eye.

"I admit I am surprised the hold blood connections seem to have over you."

Andromeda did not reply, her mouth a hard, thin line. She was not about to reveal the depths of her relationship with her estranged younger sister.

Snape pivoted.

"She is not as weak as Lucius," he replied tersely.

"You know that's no consolation."

"Well, perhaps it should be. She will protect her home— and her lineage— at all costs."

"That's what concerns me. She—" Andromeda hesitated, knowing she was revealing too much. "She still has her own life to live."

They scrutinized one another in heavy silence, their expressions equally unreadable.

"Narcissa would hardly be the first to sacrifice herself for her kin…" Snape said quietly.

"…or for love… and she'd hardly be the last," Andromeda added, thinking of her own daughter, who she knew had already done much the same.

Snape nodded.

"There is nothing to be done for Narcissa directly, which is why we continue to focus our efforts on her son… correct?"

"Of course," Andromeda agreed, unable to ignore the ache in her heart.

/

Hermione, Draco, and Theo spent the days following Christmas in relative silence as they researched all they could about the Vanishing Cabinets. Even Draco and Theo's usual level of witty- admittedly peculiarly disparaging- banter had diminished to the point of random, half-hearted insults.

"When did you decide to start mouth-breathing, Draco? You sound like Millicent Bullstrode trying to fit into her dress robes for the Yule Ball—"

"When did you decide to be such a prat, Nott?"

Hermione snorted at Draco's weak retort.

"Like that one, eh Granger?" Theo asked, cocking an eyebrow and leaning back as he balanced himself on two legs of his chair.

"You two are really starting to lose your touch. Running out of insults after too much time together, I think," Hermione commented with a satisfied grin.

"Running out of insults for Theo? That well never runs dry… but I suppose you're right about the other thing. I'd even join S.P.E.W. if it meant I never had to be in the same bloody room as you two ever again," Draco interjected.

"Sorry, Malfoy, application denied on account of being a complete tosser."

Draco gaped at Hermione's uncharacteristic choice of words and Theo burst into laughter, his chair falling backward to the floor with a clatter.

Without breaking eye contact with Draco, Hermione's grin widened. Entirely captivated, Draco found it wholly impossible to look away.

_No,_ he told himself. _I can't do this…_

He slammed his book shut, annoyed— with himself.

"Better go check your potion, Granger… wouldn't want Nott here to set one of your precious books on fire again, would you?"

Hermione groaned inwardly at the recollection of the aftermath of Theo's discovery of the failed cauldron. Consumed by his anger over his own failure (as it turned out, he _had_ forgotten to add the Occamy eggshell to the now-failed batch of Felix Felicis), he'd unintentionally set a stack of books aflame, which Hermione had promptly extinguished, even amid his barrage of screams and Malfoy's insufferable smugness.

Draco still didn't know exactly _what_ potion had failed, however.

"Well, I _am_ leaving. Harry and Ron should be back soon. Actually, you two should probably leave, too. _Everyone_ will be back today."

Hermione had received a letter from Harry that he, Ron, and Ginny would be back via a specially designated floo schedule today, and that Bill would be coming with them, to examine her necklace at last.

Draco cringed at the mention of Potter's name, and the realization that the castle would again be teeming with students, making his task all the more difficult. He idly wondered where Slughorn's mead, the one he'd poisoned at Slughorn's Christmas party, had gotten off to… surely, Draco reasoned, if someone had consumed it— particularly if that someone was his intended recipient— he would've heard about it by now.

As reluctant as he was to admit it, let alone accept it, Draco had become accustomed, even a bit comfortable, with Theo and Hermione's presence in the Room of Hidden Things. If he was not such a stubborn person, he would've even been able to note that the three of them worked _well_ together; they seemed to be making some progress now, albeit incremental.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco watched Hermione gather her things, her long, brown hair swishing behind her as she left he and Theo behind.

"You can stop staring now, Draco. She's gone. Holiday's over."

/

A/N: I debated omitting the bit with Lupin, Snape, and Andromeda, but ultimately I felt it was important to the overall plot (and about time to check in with the Healing professor). I hope you're enjoying this fic. Thank you so much for reading! A special thanks to those who have taken the time to leave kudos and/or review!


	28. Secondly

/

"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed as he appeared through the hearth, dusting the soot from his robes before he embraced her.

"Harry! I missed you!" Seeing his familiar smile, she knew for certain she _had_ missed him.

"But not as much as she missed me," Ginny said in jest, smiling as she appeared behind Harry.

"Of course," Hermione replied as she released Harry and moved to hug Ginny.

"Where's Ron?" Hermione asked, noting his absence as she parted from Ginny.

"He's coming later, with Luna," another Weasley responded through a puff of ash as he stepped beyond the hearth, although, by the sight of the fang earring dangling from his ear and the confidence in his stride, Hermione immediately recognized it was not Ron— it was Bill.

"Luna?" Hermione asked as she shifted her gaze to Harry in curiosity.

"Yes, Luna Lovegood, y'know— blond hair, radish earrings, huge lion hat, Thestral whisperer extraordinaire…" Ginny replied sarcastically, although good-naturedly. "She and Ron haven't left each other's side the whole break."

"What about Lavender?" Hermione asked.

Harry shrugged, "Don't ask me—"

"Oh, my dear idiot brother has forgotten all about Lav-Lav… I think _Won-Won's_ in for a very rude awakening when he gets back," explained Ginny.

"Ron says he and Luna are just friends," Harry mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation.

Ginny snorted. "Just friends… right. Those two can't get enough of each other, they just don't know it yet. You two wouldn't know anything about that kind of thing though, _would_ you…" Ginny's voice was dripping in devious sarcasm.

Harry blushed deeply and Hermione looked to Bill, eager to change the subject.

"Thanks for coming to look at the necklace, Bill."

"I'm sorry it's taken me so long, Hermione. Things are getting ugly at Gringott's… uglier than usual. And don't get me started on the Ministry— but let's find another room, I'm sure more people will be coming through this Floo shortly."

"Hermione, er— Dumbledore wants to see me right away—" said Harry, his expression full of concern and guilt.

"And I need to find Neville— I forgot to give him his Christmas gift before the holiday," Ginny added.

"It's okay, you two go ahead," Hermione replied as they stopped outside an empty classroom. "I'll catch up with you later."

In truth, she was relieved Harry would not have another chance to examine the necklace, nor discover the scar she'd been concealing all this time.

"Bye, Bill!" Ginny called as she and Harry disappeared down the corridor.

Hermione entered the empty classroom with Bill, taking a seat at a vacant desk as he set to work examining the necklace through a jeweler's loupe he'd pulled from his pocket.

"Definitely goblin platinum, there's no question there… and pretty old too. Maybe sixteenth century."

Hermione's eyes widened in surprise; she never imagined the necklace could be quite that old. She was afraid to ask Bill how much he thought it was worth.

"And the two rings… Dad told me about them."

"Do they mean something?" She inquired.

"Marriage," Bill said plainly.

Hermione felt a lump grow in her throat.

"A bond for life. At least in a traditional sense… in more modern times it's just been a symbol that a witch was taken— er, you know, in a relationship…"

"Oh," Hermione replied, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of such a bond… with Malfoy. It didn't help that Fleur was not nearly the only witch who found Bill Weasley rather attractive.

"But Goblins are as possessive of each other as they are of their valuables, and doubly as mistrusting. They've used their metals to mark their possessions— and their mates— for centuries… and of course wizards and witches copied this idea and claimed it as their own— you can now buy lots of jewelry right in Diagnon Alley with the same sort of charm, of course made with more common metals— only the person who clasped it can remove it."

"But why does mine burn?"

"Another thing wizards and witches are really good at— corruption— and getting disadvantaged creatures like Goblins to do their dirty work. I see this one's marked you… dad didn't mention that."

Hermione looked away, trying to hide her guilty expression, but it was in vain.

"Oh, I see…" Bill said quietly in realization of Hermione's deception. "Hermione, why didn't you mention that to my dad? I'm assuming Harry and Ron don't know either?"

"I—" Hermione felt very warm. "I didn't think it really mattered… and I didn't want anyone to worry."

Bill sighed heavily, and Hermione only now noticed the dark circles under his eyes. Clearly, he hadn't been exaggerating about Gringott's and the Ministry.

"You've seen the mark before? What does it mean? And why does it look like an 'M'?"

Bill pulled away, tucking his loupe back into his pocket. He slumped into his seat at the vacant desk beside Hermione, and she thought he looked so much older than she'd ever noticed him look before. He reminded her very strongly of Mr. Weasley the night before they's left for school. The war was taking its toll on everyone, it seemed.

"It means Malfoy has been tracking you. Goblin metals can make connections like that. Draco's the heir of not one, but two ancient pureblood families, so there's no doubt he's got some goblin-made valuables of his own… another necklace maybe, or more likely a ring…"

Hermione's eyes widened in recognition.

_Malfoy_ does _have a goblin-made platinum ring, and he wears it all the time._

She remembered the way Slughorn had complimented it, along with her necklace, at one of his suppers.

"So you've seen him wearing such a ring then," Bill said grimly, noting Hermione's expression of realization. "I bet your location shows up right on the inside."

_So that's how he knew I was waiting for him and Nott outside the Room of Hidden Things…_

Hermione wondered if Draco was looking at the inside of his ring right now, tracking her location as she did his on the Marauder's Map.

"As for the 'M' mark… well…" Bill trailed off, shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.

"You can tell me, Bill. I need to know."

"It's _his_ mark— Malfoy's I mean. His signature. Each time someone else tries to remove the necklace, the deeper the mark will burn."

"You mean… the 'M' is his— his handwriting? From his _actual_ signature?"

Bill nodded gravely in silence.

Hermione shivered. She felt as if the Dark Mark itself had been seared into her collarbone.

"I've tried to heal it—" she said quietly.

Bill looked away. "It might fade a bit over time… but it will never heal. It's Dark magic…" Bill continued grimly. "Could be Goblin or wizard, I'm not sure… I'm sorry, Hermione."

"It's— it's all right," she said. She had suspected as much.

"Can you remove the necklace?" Hermione asked hopefully.

"I could— but it might kill you… actually, it could kill us both."

"So you're saying the only safe way to remove it—"

"—is to get Malfoy to take it off of you himself, yes… unfortunately."

Bill scowled, and his expression reminded her of Ron when he was frustrated with something.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the weight of this new information settling in her chest… heavy, constricting.

"I know Malfoy will never remove it without being forced. We need to tell a professor, or Dum—"

"No!" Hermione panicked.

_No one else can know… they'll start asking questions… or he could be expelled, and then…_

Bill watched her internal struggle with marked concern.

"I— I just mean… it will only make it worse," she added hurriedly. "The necklace isn't hurting me, and… and I can handle Malfoy."

Bill sighed. "If you're sure that's what you want—"

"Yes," she replied quickly. "But I have another question…" Her mind was racing.

"This is obviously a dark item— how did it get past Filch's sensors?"

"It's goblin-made, that's how. It's a different sort of magic, and metal, the way the magic of house-elves is different from ours."

Hermione nodded in understanding, thinking of Sprock's recent appearance in the castle.

"Thank you for coming, Bill… I know it was to give me bad news, but at least I know what I have to do now."

Bill took a moment to scrutinize her expression.

"I'm not going to ask why you haven't told anyone about the scar, Hermione— the _real_ reason why," he added quickly as she opened her mouth to make a retort.

"Malfoy— he… well who knows what he's been put up to now that his father's imprisoned. There have been whispers about the goings-on at Malfoy Manor… At any rate, Draco's dangerous— so please, just promise me you'll be careful. For your own sake, but for Harry and Ron's too."

"I—" Hermione paused, considering perhaps now might be her last opportunity to come clean about everything.

"I will," she said quietly, unable to meet Bill's eyes, her thoughts involuntarily wandering to the way Malfoy's hand had felt in hers, his ring pressed into her palm.

/

"Thanks again for the seeker's gloves, Hermione, my old ones were knackered," Harry said, grinning broadly at her as they sat side-by-side by the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room.

It was nearly midnight, and Harry had just finished telling Hermione and Ron about his meeting with Dumbledore; all the memories the Headmaster had shown him, and Harry's new task— retrieve Slughorn's completed memory about horcruxes.

Hermione had spent all evening catching up with Harry in much the same spot, recounting his Christmas at the Burrow, including Tonks' continued poorly demeanor, Percy's reappearance, and Harry's unwelcome meeting with the Minister. She'd been disgusted to learn how Scrimgeour had tried to use Harry as a mascot, and surprised to learn of Lupin's underground work with werewolves. Hermione reasoned at least they now had an explanation for their former professor's ongoing silence this term.

Ron, too fearful to face Lavender Brown's wrath, had decided to hide out with Luna in Ravenclaw Tower, only returning to Gryffindor's common room when he was sure Lavender had gone to bed.

"Thanks, Harry, but my gift wasn't _nearly_ as nice as the gift Lavender got Ron…" she replied, barely containing her laughter.

"You told!?" Ron exclaimed from his high-backed chair.

Harry held up his hands in defense.

"It was Ginny," Hermione explained, her smile widening at the memory of Ginny's hilarious description of the heart necklace Lavender had given Ron. "But I already knew about it actually— Lavender bragged about it before break. By the way, Won-Won, why aren't you wearing it? Not to your taste?"

"I'd rather wear the keeper's helmet Luna gave me," Ron scowled, crossing his arms across his chest in defiance.

"The one with the embroidered radishes?" Harry asked sweetly.

"Yes— the one with the radishes. She could've embroidered a Crumple-Horned Snorcack on there for all I care— it'd _still_ be better than that bleeding necklace—" Ron mumbled.

"You'll have to face her eventually, Ron…" Hermione admonished.

"It's a big castle," Ron replied hopefully.

Harry snorted. "Good luck with that. Just end it, mate. Get it over with."

Hermione found she quite agreed, even if she thought 'ending it' seemed like a rough bit of terminology.

"Speaking of horrible necklaces, Bill really said there's no way he can get rid of Malfoy's necklace?" Ron asked, his long legs dangling over the side of his armchair.

"Not without the potential of killing us both," Hermione replied nonchalantly.

Harry grimaced.

She hadn't told them what else Bill had explained to her about the connection between the necklace and Malfoy's ring, and she certainly had no plans to do so.

"So he thinks Malfoy will just remove it if you ask nicely? Has my brother gone daft—? _That_ was his best idea? I swear this wedding has made him go wonky," Ron scoffed.

" _I_ have a few better ideas on how to handle the slimy git," Harry mumbled darkly, glaring at Hermione's neckline.

"I suppose I could just Imperio him," Hermione added, smirking at the thought of Malfoy under her control.

Ron and Harry gaped at her.

"You've definitely had a little too much alone time, Hermione," Ron said.

"It could work," Harry added, as if seriously reconsidering Hermione's proposal to use the Imperius curse.

Ron scowled."Why don't we just tell McGonagall? Or Dumbledore— they could get Malfoy to remove the necklace—?"

"Bill said the same thing. But don't you think that will only make things worse?" Hermione replied nervously.

Luckily, Harry didn't seem to note the concern in her voice.

"Malfoy will only become more of a prat," Harry agreed, nodding. "Not sure how that's possible at this point, though."

"So you're just going to live with it forever?" Ron asked.

Ron and Harry both stared at her, their eyes wandering to her collar. Impulsively, she brought her fingertips to her neck; she could feel that the platinum and gold chains had tangled together.

"At least it's pretty," Hermione mused dryly.

But then she caught Harry's deep frown and added quickly, and quietly, "Not nearly as nice as the one you gave me, Harry."

/

The new term picked up as if there had been no holiday at all, and hardly a week had passed before the sixth years were again swamped with coursework, plus the newly added stress of Apparition lessons.

Keen to avoid another failure, Hermione and Theo were spending even more time working on Felix Felicis, cramped in the tiny storeroom with their schoolwork and the stacks of Ancient Runes tomes from Greystoke Castle.

But Draco and Hermione were also spending an increasing amount of time together, as their forced partnership in Healing continued both in an out of class with the mounting required homework Professor Tonks continued to assign.

"Your boyfriend is a real bloody prat, you know that?" Draco fumed, unceremoniously dropping his bag to the floor as he roughly tossed the fleshy, and decidedly creepy, animated doll his aunt had given each student pair for practice onto their study table in the Room of Hidden Things.

Hermione winced as it made a sickly crunching sound against the hard surface.

"Firstly, don't you think I _know_ he can be infuriatingly irritating and rash? I've had to live with him every day for the past six years," Hermione said, her anger palpable.

She didn't think Harry was _always_ these things, of course, but he had just used the Half-Blood Prince's book in Potions class again, winning him top marks when he'd used a bezoar when his attempt to brew an antidote had failed miserably; apparently, the Prince's interest in any and every other potion far outweighed his interest in antidotes.

It wasn't so much that Harry had won Slughorn's praise through undeserving means that bothered Hermione— although she could admit she vehemently disagreed with it— but it was Harry's continued use of the book without so much as a second thought about the consequences.

_Well, at least winning favor might help him get Slughorn's memory,_ Hermione considered in an attempt to assuage her own frustration.

Draco smirked lopsidedly in surprise— and appreciation— at Hermione's clear irritation with Harry.

"And secondly?" Draco questioned.

"What—?" Hermione asked, confused.

"You said firstly— which you explained quite adeptly, might I add— but what about secondly?"

"Oh—" Hermione blushed, hiding her face as she searched through her bag. "Secondly, Harry, he— well, nothing."

"Go on," Draco urged, grinning playfully at her clear discomfort. Hermione tried not to think about the way the sight of his smile made her feel, even if it was a bit at her own expense.

"He's not my boyfriend," she muttered hurriedly.

"You have more sense than I give you credit for, Granger," Draco replied before he could stop himself. He suddenly felt as though his mood had turned for the better, even as the disgusting charmed Healing doll groaned and writhed atop the table.

"I would hope so— otherwise that cabinet of yours will never be mended… not to mention you'd be failing Healing."

Hermione glanced at the doll and grimaced. As Professor Tonks had described, it was one thing to mend a grapefruit, and another thing entirely to heal something that was so lifelike.

"Can we get this over with?"

"Gladly," Draco agreed.

They set to work diagnosing and healing the doll, taking turns, both verbally and nonverbally, practicing the spells they'd learned. Draco tried his best not to stare at Hermione when she bit her lip in concentration, and Hermione tried not to glare at Draco's platinum ring— the right she now knew was tracking her.

After the better part of an hour had passed, and after many furtive glances, their doll was looking quite whole again, its pallor fading and its groans transforming into merry little hums.

"Look at that— you two are naturals. Little Draco Junior lives to see another day," Theo announced jovially as he joined them at their study table.

After the holiday, Draco, Theo, and Hermione had formulated a plan to meet inside the Room of Hidden Things without being detected, while still maintaining the ability to use Crabbe or Goyle as a watch; they used Draco's Protean coins (Hermione had been very smug to learn Draco had copied her D.A. coins) to arrange a time to meet. Hermione always arrived first, before Theo or Malfoy brought Crabbe or Goyle along. She always left the room last, after she was sure Theo and Draco had left with Crabbe or Goyle.

So far, the plan was working well. Draco continued erasing— or if the fancy struck him, modifying— Crabbe and Goyle memories. Hermione, eager to practice memory charms herself, had inquired about using Crabbe and Goyle for this purpose, but Draco had refused; there was no way he was going to risk letting on Hermione's involvement.

Draco and Hermione pulled matching faces of horror at Theo's ;Draco Junior' comment.

"Please, Nott, I'm tired… and the doll is bad enough without you calling it—" Hermione sighed.

"—what? Draco Junior? I think it's got a nice ring to it. You must prefer Draco the Second, then… classier, right Draco? Or how about Hermione Junior?"

"Or how about I tear it to shreds and we call it Theo the Dead?" Draco replied.

"Aw, Draco— you'd name your offspring after me? I'm touched."

"Theodead the Dreaded has a better ring to it," Hermione added darkly.

"Now you're thinking, Granger. Someone drank their pumpkin juice this morning…" Theo replied nonplussed, crashing into an overstuffed armchair.

"She's just feeling extra murderous after Potter's little bezoar stunt, aren't you Granger?" Draco grinned; firstly, still pleased at her annoyance with Potter… and secondly, well… secondly certainly had its perks.

"No comment," she replied, hiding her blush behind an Ancient Runes book the size of Gilderoy Lockheart's ego.

"Look— I think I've found something."

Draco strode to her side and Theo looked on from his chair with hopeful curiosity.

"This text explains the aspects of temporal spellwork, and the need for synchronicity. I think we've got to cast this spell—" she pointed to an undecipherable sequence of runes, as if Draco and Theo could understand what it said, "—at the same time as Borgin… and I mean _exactly_ the same time."

This information Hermione shared true, and she _did_ believe it would help repair the cabinets, but she also knew this was only one step of many toward repairing the cabinet. If she was going to gain control of this situation, she had to make sure Theo and Draco believed her, trusted her… as much as was possible without giving up all the answers.

She'd decided to refrain from calling Malfoy out about her new knowledge of his ring, how she knew he could track her whereabouts. She admitted it was an inconvenience, but nothing she couldn't handle… Plus, Hermione reasoned, she and Harry had been doing the same thing to him with the Map for years now.

"What're we waiting for then? Draco, get in touch with Borgin—" Theo said excitedly.

But Draco was more skeptical than Theo when it came to Hermione's leads, and she couldn't blame him for it; she knew she'd certainly be the same if the tables were somehow turned.

Draco didn't trust Hermione, as he knew she didn't trust him, but what gave him the greatest amount of pause with moving forward with any new leads was his knowledge of Greyback's involvement, a fact with Draco loathed; he found the werewolf and his practices disturbing… and the thought that Greyback and Hermione could face one another even more so.

"How can you be so sure?" Draco asked.

"I can't," she replied truthfully. "Not really… I'm not going to pretend I'm an expert. But Mum always told me all you can do is learn as much as you can and make educated choices, and I can make educated guesses better than you and Nott… and that's the best we've got."

_I can't argue with that,_ Draco admitted to himself. He felt as though the feeble thread of hope inside him had been strengthened.

"Your mum's onto something there," Draco admitted.

Hermione did her best to hide her surprise as Theo looked between them knowingly.

"I'll contact Borgin," Draco said resolutely, cringing inwardly, knowing he'd have to contact Borgin via Greyback.

His dealings with the werewolf were most unpleasant, and less than favorable, but Voldemort had insisted upon it, eager to get the werewolf leader— and his savage followers— on his side, and, Draco assumed, to keep a watchful- pressing- eye on the progress with his task.

Draco frowned.

"I think Barnabus' trolls are out there performing 'Swan Lake,' or maybe Weasley's just managed to tie his shoes for the first time on his own… Draco and Granger— actually in _agreement?_ Mum and dad must be doing it for little Draco Junior's sake—"

"Shut up, Theo!" Draco and Hermione exclaimed in unison.

/

A/N: As always, thank you so much for reading!


	29. Mead

A/N: There is a good amount of the original text from HBP in this chapter, particularly Harry and Hermione's conversation with Hagrid. I felt it was too important to the overall plot to omit. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

/

Apparition lessons continued for the sixth years every Sunday in the Great Hall without much success all throughout what was a very dreary February; Susan Bones had managed to splinch her left leg from the rest of her body, and Seamus Finnigan had successfully caught his shoes on fire twice. Needless to say it would be a gross understatement to muse that tensions among the sixth year students were running high, and Hermione was certainly not immune.

This tension was only compounded by mounting coursework, exhaustingly slow cabinet research, and secret potion brewing. To top it all off, Hermione learned that Harry had somehow managed to decipher that Crabbe and Goyle had been keeping watch for Malfoy, prompting him to open the Map with increased frequency, much to Hermione's dismay. Luckily, Harry had not figured out exactly _where_ it seemed Crabbe and Goyle meandered the most, nor where Malfoy was disappearing.

To keep there map out of Harry's hands as much as she was reasonably able, Hermione was doing her best to take the map with her whenever and wherever she could, especially when she met Draco and Theo in the Room of Hidden Things. In an attempt to stave off her best friend's suspicion, she claimed she was more likely to discover what Malfoy was up to because they were partnered for Healing.

Harry had eyed her curiously at this explanation, but had yet to question her.

Luckily, Hermione was able to use this partnership as an excuse for when she and Malfoy were together, whether they were actually working on their Healing assignments or— as was more often the case— doing research for the cabinet.

It was also fortunate for Hermione that Harry did not have nearly as much interest in Theo's whereabouts, and he had yet to notice her frequent trips to the store room where she and Theo continued to brew their Felix Felicis.

The first of March, Ron's birthday, arrived in what felt like the blink of an eye. The Hogsmeade trip had been cancelled due to the horrendous weather, but Hermione didn't mind. The rain and wind whipped outside, rattling castle windows, but inside the Room of Hidden Things, she, Draco, and Theo barely noticed, nor cared.

"How will we explain to Professor Tonks what happened to it if it disappears?" Hermione asked, holding onto the charmed Healing doll Theo still insisted upon referring to as 'Draco Junior,' much to Draco and Hermione's consternation.

"I told you, Granger— we'll just tell her my spell went wrong. She won't care, she likes me." Draco replied.

"Wasn't she exiled from your family? I don't think she likes you any more than any other student, Malfoy. Just because she's your aunt doesn't mean she'll give you special treatment—"

"That's exactly what that means," Theo interjected. "Look, I know you're scared for Draco Junior, but we need to try…"

Hermione and Draco both grimaced.

"If you call this thing Dra— that name— one more time, I'm going to toss _you_ in the cabinet," Hermione replied fiercely.

"And I'll gladly help," Draco added. "But Theo's right, Granger, we have to try. Give it to me."

The narrow thread of hope Draco had grasped in January was again threadbare, slipping from his grasp. With Hermione's help, they'd performed a number of simultaneous spells with Borgin, but had yet to successfully transport anything larger or more sentient than an apple. Fear and desperation were again clawing at his insides.

To Draco's great irritation, Slughorn seemed to be refraining from arranging any more of his suppers for some mysterious reason, preventing him from checking the whereabouts of the mead he'd poisoned. He wondered every day where the said mead had gotten off to, whose hands it might've fallen into… and, most worrisome of all, whose lips it had yet to touch.

To make everything worse, Draco hadn't heard from his mother since before the holiday, and found himself constantly imagining all the ways Voldemort might be acting on his surmounting impatience and disappointment in the wake of his continued failure. Sleep was a long, distant memory.

"Fine," Hermione said reluctantly, handing over the doll, now wailing loudly.

Theo, Hermione, and Draco cringed at the sound.

"Quick, Draco… it's brutal," Theo said, looking away.

Draco placed the doll inside the cabinet and Theo hastily closed the door. The crying stopped almost instantly.

Theo opened the door; the doll was gone.

"That's the easy part," Hermione said as Draco stepped forward to close the door again.

"You're a cauldron half empty sort of person, aren't you?" replied Theo.

"I know it's difficult for you to recognize, but it's called being realistic. You should try it some time," Draco interjected and, much to his grudging pleasure, Hermione laughed.

"What fun would that be?" Theo chirped.

Draco sighed just as they all heard a rather wet-sounding thump from inside the cabinet, followed by a palpable absence of sound.

To his dismay, a dark red liquid slowly seeped beneath the doorframe.

"Oh, no…" Hermione whispered as Draco opened the door with grim trepidation.

The doll had made the journey back, but its appearance was a far cry from the way it had looked when they'd first placed it inside the cabinet. It lay there barely breathing, its clothes and skin torn to shreds, covered in its own blood. It was as if it had been splinched.

"Ugh, bloody hell—" Theo complained, retreating.

"Move," Hermione commanded as she rushed forward, crouching by the doll's side, her wand raised as she set to work healing it.

Draco stood beside her, immobilized by the weight of their failure, the reverberation of Hermione's powerful magic, and the sight of the haggard doll— its blood slowly dripping onto his shoes.

"Help me!" Hermione exclaimed, and the sound of her voice jolted Draco into action.

He knew Hermione truly cared about her academic success, but as he crouched beside her— saw her pained expression and blood-soaked hands— he suspected she cared about so much more than accidentally murdering her homework. Draco suddenly realized _he_ cared too… but not particularly for the doll nor his class performance.

"We need to stop the blood flow," Hermione urged.

Draco did as he was instructed, carefully casting the healing spells he'd learned would help to ebb the flow of blood.

To his great relief, he saw the dark red liquid begin to recede, but the doll now lay unmoving.

"It's not breathing," Hermione said. "I think I need to restart its heart. Malfoy— keep healing its wounds."

Draco nodded.

"Corcillum vita!" Hermione exclaimed, but the doll did not stir.

"Corcillum vita!" Hermione tried again, in vain.

"It's just a doll—" Theo said from behind them.

Draco knew Theo was right, of course. It _was_ just a doll, animated not by life, nor a soul— if there even was such a thing, Draco wasn't sure— but by magical charms. He had no desire to disappoint his aunt, nor to try to explain how they'd killed the doll, but at the sight of her determined expression, her continued efforts to save the doll, he found he couldn't disappoint _Hermione_.

"Together," Draco said unflinchingly. Their eyes met briefly and she nodded.

"Corcillum vita," Draco and Hermione cast in unison, the sound of their combined voices steady and calm.

To Draco's great relief, the doll made a sharp gasp for air, and its chest began to rise and fall once more. He turned to look for Hermione's brown eyes again— exactly what he hoped to see there, he was not sure— but to his great disappointment, she didn't look away from the doll, busying herself replenishing its blood.

His relief evaporated, leaving him cold, empty.

"That was close," Hermione said when there was not one drop of blood left in the cabinet and the doll was humming merrily to itself again, as if it hadn't just been nearly eviscerated.

In the emptiness, the familiar spark of anger ignited; Draco did not feel quite so relieved. He had failed to mend the cabinet… again.

His time was running out, and he felt as though _he_ was being slowly eviscerated by his own fear and desperation— from the inside out.

But there was no one to help make sure _his_ heart kept beating. No one to protect Theo and Hermione should this all go horribly wrong…

" _Close?_ Who cares about the bloody doll, Granger? We're no closer to fixing this cabinet than we were before."

"Now that's not exactly true—" Theo interjected, hoping to stave off the argument he sensed brewing.

Draco and Hermione ignored him.

"Not exactly true?! Have I _missed_ something? Did you somehow manage to send something through the cabinet without killing it or tearing it to pieces? Maybe you just forgot to mention it—"

"It didn't die," Hermione said sharply, her eyes blazing. "You said the bird died… but the doll didn't. That's progress, even if your teaspoon-sized intelligence can't see that."

"Granger, I don't think that's fair— got to be a tablespoon, at least—" Theo chimed.

Draco sighed in annoyance and ran his hands thorough his hair.

"So let me get this straight, Granger— you think being _torn apart_ is better than being killed? You call that _progress_? Maybe you should hop in there next if you think we've made so much _progress_."

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest as she glared at Draco. It was almost as if Theo were not in the room. Draco clenched his jaw in anger. If he was being honest with himself, he was not angry with her, nor with Theo, but with himself.

"Draco, you know she's right. It's something… and something's better than—"

"—I think we can spend less time researching and more time trying the repair spells," Hermione interrupted, unblinking.

"Fine," Draco said, turning away from her at last. "I'll set up some times with Borgin."

"Fine," Hermione replied coldly, gathering her things.

"Fine, indeed!" Theo said with mock cheer. "Why don't I watch Draco Junior for a while— seems mum and dad could use some rest."

/

/

After leaving the Room of Hidden Things, Hermione, still reeling from the doll's injury and her argument with Draco, made her way to the storeroom on the sixth floor to check on Felix.

"Hermione!"

She spun around to find Luna running toward her, her wavy blond hair bouncing wildly behind her. Hermione immediately knew something was wrong; she had never seen the Ravenclaw look so out of sorts before. Luna had a knack for remaining cool and collected, even during the worst of times.

"What's wrong, Luna?" Hermione asked worriedly.

"It's— it's Ronald," she explained, gasping for breath. Hermione's eyes widened in fear.

"What's happened?"

"I'm not sure— let's go— hospital wing."

They raced to the hospital wing together and found Harry, Ginny, Fred, and George waiting outside, each of their faces portraying grave seriousness and exhaustion. At the sight of Fred and George's uncharacteristically somber expressions, Hermione felt her heart might stop.

"What's— happened?" Hermione gasped between put a steadying hand on her shoulder. Luna stared at Harry and Ginny in silence, her eyes as wide and fearful and searching as a doe's.

"He's okay," Harry said quietly.

"Thank Merlin," Luna whispered, her pained voice nearly inaudible.

"He was poisoned," Ginny explained, her expression a mixture of concern and appreciation for Luna.

"Poisoned?" Hermione whispered in shock, suddenly very grateful for Harry's hand on her shoulder. "Who—?"

"Ron ate some of the chocolates Romilda Vane gave me, they got mixed up with his birthday presents… they were laced with love potion," Harry explained tiredly, and Hermione got the sense he'd already explained the story at least half a dozen times.

Hermione glared at Fred and George at the mention of love potions, and they looked away abruptly, either suddenly very interested in the type of stone lining the walls and floor or they were feeling rather guilty.

"So I brought him to Slughorn," Harry shot Hermione a pointed look. She knew Harry was running out of ideas on how to obtain the rest of Slughorn's memory. "Slughorn gave him the antidote. But I guess the after-effects of love potions leave you feeling… er—"

"—heartbroken," Fred and George replied in unison, but when Hermione glared at them again they hurriedly looked away as if they'd been caught by McGonagall in the middle of the act of one of their pranks.

"I told him it was Ron's birthday. So Slughorn gave us some mead…"

Just then, the doors to the infirmary swung open, and Madam Pomfrey, looking as stoic as a statue, allowed them to enter.

"But you must be quiet," she directed her stern expression to Fred, George, and Harry, who had disturbed the walls of her infirmary on more than a few occasions.

"And no more than seven visitors at a time," she commanded, glancing at them one by one, taking count.

They entered the silent, heavily curtained and lamp-lit hospital wing. Only Ron's bed was occupied, and they all gathered around it. To her great relief, Hermione saw Ron looked wholly unharmed— a bit more disheveled than usual— mumbling in his sleep, but healthy— and, more importantly, alive.

"So, all in all, not one of Ron's better birthdays?" said Fred quietly.

"Well, this definitely isn't how we imagined handing over our present," George said grimly, placing a large wrapped gift on Ron's bedside cabinet as he sat beside Ginny.

"Yeah, when we pictured the scene, he was conscious," Fred continued.

"There we were in Hogsmeade, waiting to surprise him—" said George.

"You were in Hogsmeade?" Hermione asked curiously, diverting her attention away from Ron.

"We were thinking of buying Zonko's," explained Fred gloomily. "A Hogsmeade branch, you know, but a fat lot of good it'll do us if you lot aren't allowed out at weekends to buy our stuff anymore... but… er, Luna— I'm afraid to ask what you're doing," Fred remarked off-handedly as he drew up a chair beside Harry, all the while observing Luna with a quizzical expression.

Hermione saw Ginny smirk in amusement, and she turned her own attention to Luna with hesitant curiosity, finding the Ravenclaw walking in slow semi-circles around Ron's bed, all the while animatedly misting what looked like water into the air with each graceful turn.

"I'm purifying the air."

"George, I told you we'd need our herbal mist today."

"It's not herbal," Luna explained plainly, either ignoring or completely missing Fred's sarcasm. She began misting with increased exuberance.

"Luna… what exactly _are_ you misting?" Harry inquired.

Hermione braced herself, thinking, _I'm not sure we_ want _to know._

"Gnome saliva, of course. It has wondrous healing properties."

Harry and Hermione reacted with matching grimaces. Ginny's shoulders shook with silent laughter.

"Fred, remind me to burn these clothes when we get home," George said gravely, brushing off his shoulders.

"…Lu—na…" Ron suddenly mumbled in his sleep. Luna began humming quietly to herself, her golden hair floating about her shoulders with every misty turn.

Hermione shook her head.

"Do your mum and dad know about Ron?" she whispered to Ginny.

"Yeah, they're meeting with Dumbledore right now… they should be back soon."

Hermione nodded, hoping Mr. Weasley would be too distracted to bring up any mention of the platinum necklace. "So you said you think Slughorn's mead poisoned Ron?" She asked Harry.

Something about the combination of Slughorn and mead nagged at the back of her mind, but she could hardly pinpoint why.

Harry nodded grimly. "Ron drank it first. We didn't know what was happening right away— but then I realized…"

Hermione's eyes widened in shock and she placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder.

"…and then I remembered I could use a bezoar— found one in Slughorn's office and shoved it down his throat…"

"Oh, Harry—" she whispered, feeling grateful for the Half-Blood Prince for the very first time.

"Lucky there was one in the room," Harry continued in a whisper as he placed his hand atop hers. Hermione turned cold at the thought of what might've happened otherwise.

"So the poison was in the drink?" asked Fred quietly.

"Yes," said Harry at once. "Slughorn poured it out—"

"Would he have been able to slip something into Ron's glass without you seeing?"

"Probably," Harry said, "but why would Slughorn want to poison Ron?"

"No idea," said Fred, frowning. "You don't think he could have mixed up the glasses by mistake? Meaning to get you?"

"Slughorn would never intentionally poison Harry," Hermione said immediately. It was no secret to anyone that Harry was one of— if not his most— favorite student, even now that he was trying to obtain the rest of the professor's hidden memory.

"I dunno," said Fred, shrugging. "There must be loads of people who'd like to poison Harry, mustn't there? The 'Chosen One' and all that?"

"Don't remind me," Hermione said, glancing at Harry worriedly. She recalled considering the same thing when Katie had been cursed by the opal necklace.

"So you think Slughorn's a Death Eater?" said Ginny.

"Anything's possible," Fred said darkly.

"He could be under the Imperius Curse," said George.

Hermione reasoned this was not out of the realm of possibility, but it seemed to her to be highly unlikely.

"Or he could be innocent," she mused aloud. "The poison could have been in the bottle, in which case it was probably meant for Slughorn himself."

"Who'd want to kill Slughorn?" George asked.

"Dumbledore reckons Voldemort wanted Slughorn on his side," Harry explained. "Slughorn was in hiding for a year before he came to Hogwarts. And..."

Hermione met Harry's gaze knowingly; she knew they were both thinking of the memory Dumbledore had not been able to extract from Slughorn, the memory Harry had been tasked with retrieving.

"…and maybe Voldemort wants him out of the way, maybe he thinks he could be valuable to Dumbledore."

"But you said Slughorn had been planning to give that mead to Dumbledore for Christmas," Ginny said to Harry.

_But Slughorn prefers wine…_ Hermione's mind whispered.

"So the poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore," Ginny continued.

_Slughorn prefers wine and Dumbledore prefers mead…_

Hermione suddenly felt as though _she'd_ been the one rotating in semi-circles around Ron's bed; her head was spinning, the floor beneath her feet collapsing…

She gripped the back of Harry's chair to steady herself.

At the mention of Dumbledore, a memory rushed to the forefront of Hermione's mind… of the night of one of Slughorn's suppers, the very same evening he'd commented on her platinum necklace and Malfoy's ring. She remembered with clarity now… the professor had explained that Dumbledore had an immense love of the honey liquid…

She remembered both she and Malfoy had been distracted that evening, but she was certain he'd heard Slughorn too.

_Malfoy tried to poison Dumbledore— he's trying to murder Dumbledore._ _Voldemort's tasked Malfoy with murdering Dumbledore._

With this realization, Hermione gripped the back of the chair with such increased force that her knuckles turned white.

She couldn't prove Malfoy had poisoned Slughorn's mead any more than she could prove he'd planted the cursed opal necklace, but she could not deny the mounting coincidences and circumstantial evidence, nor the fact that both acts certainly had quite a lot in common.

_No…_ she thought, feeling sure she'd forgotten how to breathe. _It can't be… Voldemort has set him up to fail… to die…_

"Hermione—?" Harry whispered. Hermione looked in his direction and found his tired eyes full of concern.

She realized she must look quite ashen; she certainly felt as if all the blood had been drained from her body, as if _she_ were the little doll on the floor of the cabinet.

Just then, the hospital wing doors flew open, making them all jump: Hagrid came striding toward them, his hair rain-flecked, his bearskin coat flapping behind him, a crossbow in his hand, leaving a trail of muddy dolphin-sized footprints all over the floor.

"Bin in the forest all day!" he panted. "Aragog's worse, I bin readin' to him—didn' get up ter dinner till jus' now an' then Professor Sprout told me abou' Ron! How is he?"

"Not bad," Harry said, again eyeing Hermione with concern. "They say he'll be okay."

"No more than seven visitors at a time!" exclaimed Madam Pomfrey, hurrying out of her office.

"Hagrid makes seven," George pointed out.

"Oh... yes..." relented Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to have been counting Hagrid as several people due to his vastness. To cover her confusion, she hurried off to clear up his muddy foot prints with her wand.

"I don' believe this," said Hagrid hoarsely, shaking his great shaggy head as he stared down at Ron. "Jus' don' believe it... look at him lyin' there... who'd want ter hurt him, eh?"

Hermione barely heard Hagrid; her mind— and heart— were racing with thoughts of Malfoy.

"That's just what we were discussing," Luna chimed. "We don't know."

"Someone couldn' have a grudge against the Gryfinndor Quidditch team, could they?" said Hagrid anxiously. "Firs' Katie, now Ron..."

"I can't see anyone trying to bump off a Quidditch team," George reasoned.

"Wood might've done the Slytherins if he could've got away with it," said Fred fairly.

"I seriously doubt it's Quidditch, but I think there's a connection between the attacks," Hermione whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

"Hermione?" Harry asked again gently. He rose from his chair to stand beside her.

She didn't even notice everyone was now staring at her. Even Luna had halted her spritzing to listen.

"Well… for one thing, they both ought to have been fatal and weren't, although that was pure luck. And for another, neither the poison nor the necklace seems to have reached the person who was supposed to be killed…"

She swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat wouldn't disappear. Hermione didn't want to admit it, but she felt almost certain now that this intended person was Dumbledore.

"Of course," she added broodingly, "that makes the person behind this even more dangerous in a way, because they don't seem to care how many people they finish off before they actually reach their victim."

_Desperation._

Draco's heart-wrenching words to Snape the night of Slughorn's party echoed through her mind.

_'"It has to be me, or he'll—"'_

Before anybody could respond to Hermione's ominous pronouncement, and before she lost herself any further under the weight of her own thoughts, the hospital wing doors opened again and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley hurried up the ward; Mrs. Weasley seized hold of Harry and hugged him very tightly.

"Dumbledore's told us how you saved him with the bezoar," she sobbed. "Oh, Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny... you saved Arthur... now you've saved Ron..."

"Don't be... I didn't..." muttered Harry awkwardly.

"Half our family does seem to owe you their lives, now I stop and think about it," Mr. Weasley said in a constricted voice. "Well, all I can say is that it was a lucky day for the Weasleys when Ron decided to sit in your compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Harry."

Mr. Weasley's earnest sentiment shattered Hermione's foreboding reverie.

"I tell myself the same thing, Mr. Weasley," Hermione said, smiling as she took a step closer to Harry. She could tell he was flustered into silence by all the attention. "I feel so lucky that I decided to look for Neville's toad in their compartment that day… but I think we ought to leave now, or Madam Pomfrey won't let Ron have any future visitors."

She met Harry's eye and saw he was smiling at her gratefully. In truth, she was equally as grateful for an excuse to leave the room.

She needed space to think… to breathe… then maybe she'd see she was actually all wrong about Malfoy and Dumbledore.

The pounding in her chest told her otherwise.

She, Harry, and Hagrid motioned for the doors, leaving Ron with his family and Luna.

"It's terrible," growled Hagrid into his beard, as the three of them walked back along the corridor to the marble staircase. Hermione was barely paying attention, and nearly tripped down the steps.

"Wotcher, Hermione," Hagrid said, and Harry again glanced at her worriedly.

Hermione returned his glance with a look that said _"Not right now."_ The thought of detailing her suspicions concerning Malfoy and Dumbledore to Harry made her feel as though her stomach was tied up in knots, and she certainly had no intention of involving Hagrid.

"All this new security, an' kids are still gettin' hurt... Dumbledore's worried sick... He don' say much, but I can tell…" Hagrid continued, blind to their silent exchange.

Hermione bit her lower lip at Hagrid's mention of the security, thinking of the vanishing cabinet's potential to breach the castle's walls.

"He must have some ideas though, Hagrid?" Harry added.

"I spect he's got hundreds of ideas, brain like his," said Hagrid. "But he doesn' know who sent that necklace nor put poison in that mead, or they'd've bin caught, wouldn' they? Wha' worries me," said Hagrid, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder, "is how long Hogwarts can stay open if kids are bein' attacked. Chamber o' Secrets all over again, isn' it? There'll be panic, more parents takin their kids outta school, an nex' thing yeh know the board o' governors ..."

Hagrid stopped talking as the ghost of a long-haired woman drifted serenely past, then resumed in a hoarse whisper, "... the board o' governors'll be talkin about shuttin' us up fer good."

"Surely not?" Harry asked, looking worried.

"Gotta see it from their point o' view," said Hagrid heavily. "I mean, it's always bin a bit of a risk sendin' a kid ter Hogwarts, hasn' it? Yer expect accidents, don' yeh, with hundreds of underage wizards all locked up tergether, but attempted murder, tha's diff'rent. 'S no wonder Dumbledore's angry with Sn—"

At Hagrid's mention of Dumbledore and near mention of Snape, Hermione eyes widened.

Hagrid stopped in his tracks, a familiar, guilty expression on what was visible of his face above his tangled black beard.

"What?" she asked quickly. "Dumbledore's angry with Snape?" She felt Harry stiffen beside her.

"I never said tha'," said Hagrid, though his look of panic could not have been a bigger giveaway. "Look at the time, it's gettin' on fer midnight, I need ter—"

"Hagrid, why is Dumbledore angry with Snape?" Harry asked loudly.

"Shhhh!" said Hagrid, looking both nervous and angry. "Don' shout stuff like that, Harry, d'yeh wan' me ter lose me job? Mind, I don' suppose yeh'd care, would yeh, not now yeh've given up Care of Mag-"

"Don't try and make me feel guilty, it won't work!" said Harry forcefully. "What's Snape done?"

Normally, Hermione would've admonished Harry for speaking to Hagrid in such a way, but she admitted she'd been about to address him similarly, if Harry hadn't beaten her to it.

"I dunno, Harry— Hermione— I shouldn'ta heard it at all... well, I was comin' outta the forest the other evenin' an' I overheard 'em talking— well, arguin'. Didn't like ter draw attention to meself, so I sorta skulked an tried not ter listen, but it was... well, a heated discussion an' it wasn' easy ter block it out."

"Well?" Harry and Hermione urged as Hagrid shuffled his enormous feet uneasily.

"Well... I jus' heard Snape sayin' Dumbledore took too much fer granted an maybe he—Snape—didn' wan' ter do it any more—"

_To what?_ Hermione wondered frantically. _To teach? To work for the Order? To protect Malfoy?_ Hermione's mind was racing again.

_But he made an Unbreakable Vow.  
_

"Do what?" Harry asked aloud.

"I dunno, it sounded like Snape was feelin' a bit overworked, tha's all—anyway, Dumbledore told him flat out he'd agreed ter do it an' that was all there was to it. Pretty firm with him. An' then he said summat abou' Snape makin' investigations in his House, in Slytherin."

Hermione exchanged a look full of meaning with Harry, even though she was aware she knew _much_ more about Malfoy and Snape than she'd let on.

"Well, there's nothin' strange abou' that!" Hagrid added hastily, noting their silent communication.

_Does Dumbledore know Malfoy's a Death Eater…?_ She still winced at the thought. _You still don't know for sure,_ her mind tried to reason hopefully. _You've never seen his mark…_

_Does Dumbledore know that Malfoy's trying to kill him?_ She shook her head, the weight of the thought too difficult to bear.

"All the Heads o' Houses were asked ter look inter that necklace business—"

"Yeah, but Dumbledore's not having rows with the rest of them, is he?" Harry replied sharply.

"Look," Hagrid twisted his crossbow uncomfortably in his hands; there was a loud splintering sound and it snapped in two. "I know what yeh're like abou' Snape, Harry, an' I don' want yeh ter go readin' more inter this than there is."

"Look out," said Hermione tersely as she noted an approaching shadow.

They turned just in time to see the shadow of Argus Filch looming over the wall behind them before the man himself turned the corner, hunchbacked, his jowls aquiver.

"Oho!" he wheezed. "Out of bed so late, this'll mean detention!"

"No it won', Filch," said Hagrid shortly. "They're with me, aren' they?"

"And what difference does that make?" asked Filch obnoxiously.

"I'm a ruddy teacher, aren' I, yeh sneakin' Squib!" said Hagrid, firing up at once.

There was a nasty hissing noise as Filch swelled with fury; Mrs. Norris had arrived, unseen, and was twisting herself sinuously around Filch's skinny ankles.

Hermione scowled.

"Get goin'," said Hagrid out of the corner of his mouth.

She and Harry did not need telling twice; they both hurried off, Hagrid's and Filch's raised voices echoing behind them. They passed Peeves near the turn into Gryffindor Tower, but he was, mercifully, streaking happily toward the source of the yelling, cackling and calling,

"When there's strife and when there's trouble, call on Peevsie, he'll make double!"

The Fat Lady was snoozing and not pleased to be woken, but swung forward grumpily to allow them to clamber into the mercifully peaceful and empty common room.

They took a seat side-by-side— as was their custom— beside the fire and looked into the dying embers in brooding silence.

Hermione knew Harry was probably wondering why Dumbledore seemed to be keeping things from him.

"Look— Harry… Dumbledore, he— he always seems to have a plan… to know things no one else does…" she said quietly.

_Or at least I_ hope _he has a plan…_

"I just wish he'd let on even a little bit of his plans sometimes," Harry replied, his eyes unmoving from the hearth. "Or give me some hints, at least."

"He believes in you, Harry. He knows how much you can accomplish on your own."

"My own?" Harry chuckled dryly. "I'd never get anywhere without you."

She suddenly felt a lump in her throat. She wasn't ready to have this conversation… not now… preferably not ever, but she could tell Harry was feeling a bit abandoned by Dumbledore, a man who he looked to as a mentor.

"I meant what I said earlier, Harry… about looking for Trevor in your train compartment," she said, hoping to cheer him up a bit.

" _I'm_ the lucky one," Harry whispered.

They stared at the dying embers in silence, immobilized by their own hesitation. Even though Hermione felt as though the weight of all her lies was wedged between them— a growing wall that seemed more unscalable with each passing day— she fully accepted she was only about to widen the gap, to add another layer to the cold, stony barrier she had created all those months ago. What choice did she have?

_'"Lives hang in the balance…"'_

"Harry, I— I need to borrow your cloak…"

They finally turned to face each other, and Hermione saw confusion, and pain, in Harry's expression.

"My cloak?"

"I need to see Dumbledore… to tell him about my necklace, about what happened with Malfoy in Borgin's… that he saw the opal necklace there."

She wasn't completely lying to Harry; she _did_ need to see Dumbledore— to to warn him— although some part of her suspected the Headmaster already knew.

She'd already considered going to Snape, knowing the professor had vowed to protect Malfoy, that he continued to try, in vain, to help him… but she couldn't help but question the professor's true alliance.

Hermione even considered going to Theo might be best… but she knew he would do anything to protect Malfoy, even if it meant someone else might be hurt in the process, including himself. She'd do— she _had_ done— the same for Harry.

Katie Bell, and now Ron, had nearly died. And it could've been Harry. She felt partly responsible for her silence, but she wasn't _really_ helping Malfoy, after all— or was she?

_Maybe I don't even need to mention Malfoy's name to Dumbledore…_

Hermione shook her head internally. She didn't want to wait to find out who would be Malfoy's next unintentional— or _intentional_ — victim… she couldn't wait to find out who else's blood she might have on her hands…

_Dumbledore will help him,_ Hermione tried to convince herself.

"So this is what you were thinking about in the hospital wing? You think Malfoy's behind the poisoned mead?"

Hermione did not reply.

"What do you know, Hermione? What am I missing?" Harry pleaded. "What aren't you telling me?" He added quietly.

"I— I don't know… but I need to tell Dumbledore what we _do_ know…"

"I'll go with you," Harry said softly.

"I think I need to do this alone."

Harry opened his mouth as if to reply, searching her eyes.

"Please, Harry."

He nodded silently before disappearing up the stairs that led to the boys' dormitory.

Hermione could tell she'd disappointed him, that if he hadn't suspected she'd been lying to him, he certainly did now. But what was worse— much worse— was that she realized none of that really mattered.

Harry returned a minute later, the Invisibility Cloak clasped in hand.

"Acid Pops?" Hermione asked as she took the cloak from his hands.

Harry merely nodded in silence, his green eyes downcast.

/

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos, and reviewing! I hope you continue to read and enjoy.


	30. Head and Heart

/

Hermione was certain the sound of her rapidly beating heart would surely give away her position, but she somehow made it through the castle undetected.

"Acid pops," she whispered to the gargoyle outside of Dumbledore's office. The stone statue slid aside, revealing a narrow, spiraling staircase.

She'd only ever been in the Headmaster's office twice before; when she'd been given a time-turner so she could attend all of her third-year classes, and in fourth year, when she'd agreed to float unconscious at the bottom of the Great Lake as Viktor's "something dear." She idly mused the memory no longer made her blush as it once had.

In general, her interactions with Dumbledore had been extremely limited since the start of her magical schooling, more often than not revolving around something to do with Harry.

She swallowed nervously as she slowly ascended the stairs.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore's calm, even voice called from behind his desk as he spotted her from across the room.

His blue eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. "I expected Harry this evening, after young Mister Weasley's unfortunate accident, but I'm pleased to see you."

"I'm sorry to come so late, professor—"

"Nonsense. These days I find sleep to be as rare a thing as Fawkes himself," Dumbledore said, gesturing to the great phoenix, currently asleep on his perch. "The hour makes no difference."

_I can relate,_ Hermione thought tiredly.

"Tea?" Dumbledore offered, gesturing for her to occupy the open seat across his desk. "Professor Tonks introduced me to this lovely Earl Gray blend—"

He waved his hand in silence and a teapot and two teacups, complete with saucers and biscuits, appeared before them. Hermione found the smell of the steeping tea both calming and clarifying.

"Is that lavender? And rosemary?"

She saw Dumbledore grin with pleasure.

"Quite astute. But there is one more ingredient. Care to venture a guess?"

Hermione took a deep breath.

"Something floral?"

Dumbledore nodded in approval as the teapot began to steam.

"Rose petal."

"Thank you," Hermione said graciously as the pot poured some of its contents into her cup. She took another deep breath of the delicious aroma.

"I believe I can accurately guess why you have come to see me this evening, Miss Granger, but I do not wish to assume."

Hermione nodded in silence, bracing herself. Despite his kind assurances, she had no intention to waste the headmaster's time.

"Professor, sir— I believe the necklace that cursed Katie Bell and the mead that poisoned Ron were both failed attempts to…" she trailed off, unable to meet Dumbledore's gently inquisitive gaze.

He merely waited in patient silence.

Hermione took a deep breath to steady herself. "I believe these were both failed attempts to… to kill you." She'd meant to sound more eloquent, but could admit the topic hardly lent itself to such things.

She looked up and saw Dumbledore's gleaming eyes studying her over the rim of his teacup.

_He already knows. He_ always _knows…_

Uncomfortable, she busied herself with her own teacup.

"I do not minimize your concerns, but I think it practical to inquire what has led you to believe this?"

She was in no hurry to implicate Malfoy; in fact, she hoped she would not have to utter his name at all.

"Well," she took a deep breath as she set her teacup atop its saucer. "Both incidents seem to have quite a lot in common." Hermione repeated what she had explained to Harry and the others in the hospital wing. "Both ought to have been fatal and weren't, and neither the poison nor the necklace seems to have reached the person who was supposed to be killed…"

"…and that person, you postulate, is me?"

"Yes," she responded quietly.

"And I'm sure it has not gone unnoticed by you that both acts have been rather crude in nature?"

"I thought… more desperate— professor."

"Ah— well done, Miss Granger. You have reached the root characteristic, I believe. Desperation makes one do unimaginable things— things one never imagined oneself capable of… crude acts most certainly fall under that proverbial umbrella."

Hermione nodded in silence and took another sip of her tea.

"I have also made note of the similarities between both incidents. But what leads you to believe I am the intended target, and not, say, Professor Slughorn… or Harry?"

"Well—" she began, uncomfortably. "Your, um— preference— for mead was made known to others."

She watched as Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily.

"Clearly it is no secret I have quite the affection for the honey liquid, not while Professor Slughorn roams these halls."

"Sir— I—"

Dumbledore held up a kind hand. "No need to worry, Horace will be none the wiser of our conversation this evening, Miss Granger. You need not worry about implicating him. But I do see how you made the connection between Professor Slughorn's poisoned mead and myself. Horace did inform me gift had been meant for me. May I ask you now about the cursed necklace?"

Hermione could have sworn she saw Dumbledore's eyes glance quickly at the necklaces at her throat before she spoke, but it happened so quickly, and the knowing twinkle in his eye was so distracting, that she couldn't be sure.

"I know that the person who I believe purchased the necklace, the same person who I think somehow arranged for a student to bring it to you, _also_ heard of your preference for mead. I believe that person had access to poison, and to Slughorn's intended gift for you… and…" she paused, uncertain how much she should reveal.

"Go ahead," Dumbledore encouraged gently.

"Professor Snape has been offering to assist this person, he even… he made an Unbreakable Vow to protect them."

She felt as though a huge weight had been lifted off her chest, but Dumbledore's expression remained wholly unchanged as they sat in silence for a moment, as if what she'd revealed was no surprise to him.

"Am I correct in thinking you have no concrete evidence?"

"Yes," she answered honestly, wondering if she would even choose to present the evidence to Dumbledore if she had any in her possession. She suddenly felt very foolish.

"And am I also correct in thinking that you are purposefully avoiding saying the suspect's name?"

"Yes," she answered, her shame doubling.

"You must fear for this person, perhaps even care a great deal for them and wish to protect them? How lucky they are, to have your support."

Hermione said nothing. It was hard for her to admit, but she could no longer deny she was protecting Malfoy, but it was even more difficult for her to consider _why_ she was protecting him. The only answer she'd been able to produce through the gray fog was that it felt like the right thing to do.

"Miss Granger, I have always been quite the skeptic in this regard, so you can imagine my surprise when I learned the value of _directness_ this year. And while I continue to find it wholly against my nature, against my reason, and even my better judgement at times, I wish to be direct with you now. Your own discretion with a milieu of information all these years has certainly proved you are one who can be trusted."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Y-yes, professor, of course."

Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. "I'm glad I can count on your discretion now, with what I am about to say… I am well aware of Professor Snape's vow. I also know of the suspect you do not speak, who it is you wish to protect, and I most certainly share your suspicions concerning the threat on my life."

"I—"

"I appreciate your concern about my safety as well… in fact, it touches this old wizard's heart."

"Of— of course, professor," Hermione said quietly, completely flabbergasted.

Dumbledore smiled and took a long sip of his tea.

"So what will you do, sir?" She asked tentatively.

"Me? Well, I suppose I will do nothing. I will certainly not stand in the way."

_"_ _Nothing—?"_ Hermione asked in utter disbelief, unable to tear away her eyes from the headmaster.

"Do you know of any of the accused's future plans? Perhaps a plot that has not yet come to pass?"

She hesitated. She'd been hoping to avoid this subject, as much to avoid implicating Malfoy as herself.

She sighed.

"There is a broken vanishing cabinet in— in the school. Its twin resides in a shop in Knockturn Alley, Borgin and Burkes. The person I suspect who is trying to hurt you is also trying to mend the connection between these cabinets."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Dumbledore seemed to mum over this information.

"This cabinet you speak of has most certainly slipped my attention… But my decision has not changed— for now, at least."

"But, sir, you must do _something—_ "

"On occasion, doing nothing accomplishes more than doing something."

Hermione felt panicked.

"I mean no disrespect professor, but… but _why?_ Why not intervene?"

"That question, Miss Granger, I will choose to answer in what is my usual custom— indirectly."

Hermione's eyes followed the professor with deep curiosity as he rose from his seat, his midnight blue robes floating behind him. He paused before a large stone basin and beckoned her over.

She hastily obeyed.

"I'm sure Harry has informed you of the memories we have been exploring in the Pensieve?"

"Yes, professor."

"Again, I do appreciate your discretion with the matter, Miss Granger, and Mister Weasley's too. I can not stress the delicateness, and importance, of those memories… and the memory I have tasked Harry with retrieving."

Hermione nodded in awed silence at the sight of the large yet shallow stone basin.

"But this evening I wish to show you a very different sort of memory in the Pensieve. I hope you will find it enlightening…"

Hermione watched wide-eyed as Dumbledore focused his gaze in concentration, bringing the tip of his wand to his skull. When he pulled the wand away a moment later, a long, glowing silvery hair was attached.

He guided it into the silky liquid of the Pensieve and said, "Take my arm, Miss Granger, and we will dive into the memory."

Hermione did as she was instructed, and before she could take another breath she was falling down, down, closing her eyes tightly at the sensation of weightlessness. She opened her eyes only when she felt the ground beneath her feet once more, and found Dumbledore's office had vanished. Before her now stood not one, but _two_ Dumbledores beside a set of intimidating wrought-iron gates.

The Dumbledores were nearly identical save for their robes, the depth of some of their wrinkles, and one notably damaged hand.

Hermione's eyes traveled upward, taking in the sight of a long gravel lane on the other side of the locked gate, lined on either side with a neat, manicured hedge. The lane lead to a sprawling manor house set against the lush backdrop of a clear summer's day.

Hermione was shocked to see Dobby hurrying toward them down the otherwise empty lane.

_Why is Dobby here…?_ Hermione began to wonder, but then she remembered just who Dobby had worked for before he'd been set free— the Malfoys. Dumbledore had brought her to Malfoy Manor.

_But when is this memory from?_

When Dobby reached the gate, wringing his hands nervously and panting for air, he addressed the Dumbledore with two healthy hands and slightly more shallow wrinkles.

"What is your business, sir?" The elf's voice was high and frantic. Hermione felt a pang of sympathy for Dobby, remembering his descriptions of the abuses he'd suffered at the hands of the Malfoy family.

"Good day to you," Dumbledore greeted cheerfully. "My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I am the Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, although you are welcome to call me Professor Dumbledore. I have an appointment with Lucius Malfoy."

"Professor Dumbledore!" Dobby squeaked as he snapped his fingers and the gate creaked open. "My name is Dobby, Professor Dumbledore, sir. Yes, Madam waits for the professor in the drawing room…"

"Madam?" past-Dumbledore asked gently.

"Yes, Professor Dumbledore, sir, Headmaster at Hogwarts School… Master was needed at the Ministry, so Madam waits in the drawing room for sir. Follow Dobby, quickly, Professor Dumbledore, Madam does not like to be kept waiting… oh no…"

The younger Dumbledore followed Dobby toward the Manor's front doors, and present-Dumbledore beckoned Hermione forward with a nod of his head. As they hurried along the neat gravel path, the faint echo of a far-off fountain reaching Hermione's ears, interrupted suddenly by an abrupt rustling of leaves overhead. She looked up to see the flash of feathers of a large albino peacock sitting atop the hedge, watching them with keen interest as they passed.

They reached the Manor's expansive iron doors at last, and as they stepped over the impressive threshold, Hermione's jaw dropped in awe of her surroundings.

The entry room was about as grand as the Great Hall; the ceiling was vaulted high above, most of the stone floor was covered with a plush, ornate carpet, and the walls were lined with immense tapestries, gilded framed paintings, and the magical portraits of pale-faced onlookers.

"This way, please, Professor Dumbledore!" exclaimed Dobby as he led them down a dimly lit hallway toward a set of towering wooden doors, one of which was propped open.

Hermione could feel her heart racing as they entered a room equally as spectacular as the entrance hall; a long, wooden table sat at its center and glimmering chandeliers were suspended above from yet another vaulted ceiling. Two elegant marble fireplaces, currently dormant, adorned with towering gilded mirrors, decorated each end of the room. Hermione's eyes were drawn to a grand piano beside one of the fireplaces, and she couldn't help but imagine sitting atop its bench with Draco at her side, as they'd done on Christmas Eve.

She shook her head, willing herself to focus.

"Dobby has brought Madam her company!" squeaked Dobby as he bowed low, the tip of his nose pressed against the floor. "Professor Dumbledore! Headmaster at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

"Thank you, Dobby," replied Dumbledore graciously.

Dobby's eyes widened in awe for a moment before he spotted his Madam's stern glare. The house elf promptly vanished from the room.

Hermione's eyes scanned the immense room, and to her great disappointment, she found only Narcissa Malfoy, alone— her son nowhere to be found. She was dressed in silken pale gray robes trimmed in a delicate silver thread. The light fabric gracefully floated at her sides as she glided toward Dumbledore. Her blond hair was tied back in a sophisticated twist, and she certainly looked younger than she had that August day in Madam Malkin's, but Hermione mused the woman appeared no less fierce, her expression no less incomprehensible; she emanated composure and strength… and a piercing sort of discernment— not unlike Draco's— that sent a chill down Hermione's spine. Even though the scene unfolding before her was a memory, she felt as though Narcissa could not only sense her presence, but see right into her thoughts.

"Headmaster— I apologize for Lucius' absence. He was called to the Ministry, you see. He sends his regards. Now… to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? Surely my son's letter could have been delivered via post?"

_Letter?_ Hermione wondered. _Does she mean acceptance letter?_

"Narcissa, thank you for agreeing to meet, and please give Lucius my greetings when he returns. I know your time must be quite a precious commodity these days," Dumbledore replied as he stepped further into the room.

Hermione and present Dumbledore followed close behind, and she reached out her hand as they passed the open piano, her fingers gently gliding over the keys. Even though she was inside a memory, the keys were cool and smooth to the touch; the sensation sent a shiver up her arm. as she wondered how many times Draco's fingers had touched the same keys.

Present-Dumbledore observed Hermione's action with curiosity, but his attention escaped her notice.

Narcissa's expression did not change.

"But to answer your question, it is not wholly uncommon for myself nor for Professor McGonagall to hand-deliver our acceptance letters— for select students, of course…" Past-Dumbledore explained.

Hermione recalled her first time meeting Professor McGonagall, when she'd first learned of Hogwarts existence. She'd been beyond thrilled to receive her letter, to finally be able to answer why she'd always been so different from her peers, to explain all the strange things that seemed to happen around her, to understand why she'd never really fit in…

Again, Hermione tried not to let her own memories, thoughts, and emotions get the better of her. Dumbledore was trying to show her something, after all.

Turning her attention back to the memory, she could tell Dumbeldore was humoring Narcissa, and it did not seem to be lost on the witch; although it was no secret she believed herself and her family above all others, her knowing look made it clear to Hermione that Draco's mother was clearly more perceptive than his father.

"Well, Draco _is_ a special boy— a most talented wizard… but that is no doubt expected, considering his lineage. It pleases me to see Hogwarts seems to appreciate this fact."

Hermione sighed in exasperation and disgust, present-Dumbledore's knowing glance again escaping her notice.

"Draco will have the opportunity to prove himself… the same opportunity all of Hogwarts' students are given."

"And prove himself he will, you can be sure," Narcissa assured pridefully, but not without tenderness. "Draco is ambitious, and he is diligent with his work." It was clear to Hermione Narcissa loved her son very much, and she found she was unable to disagree with her description of Draco's better qualities.

Hermione admitted Draco _was_ ambitious and diligent.

_With what he_ wants _to be diligent with,_ Hermione mused with a smirk. _And he's selectively loyal, to a fault… and skeptical and stubborn and…_

"I will be glad to give Draco his letter."

"Actually, Narcissa, I am hoping to present the letter to Draco myself… if you will allow it, of course."

"Yourself?" She replied in suspicion. "Surely a Headmaster's time is also a most _precious_ commodity?"

"Quite right, but my students are of utmost importance to this headmaster."

They regarded one another in tentative silence for a moment; Narcissa's expression now tinged— albeit almost indiscernibly— with irritation, while past-Dumbledore betrayed no such displeasure, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

"Dobby!" Narcissa called smoothly, and Dobby appeared before them once more, his knees shaking with what Hermione recognized must be fear.

"Yes, Madam? How might Dobby serve you?"

"Please bring Professor Dumbledore to Draco, I believe Lucius last saw him in the garden before he left."

"Yes, Madam!"

"I apologize for the— _help_ — today, Headmaster," Narcissa explained, directing a glance of scorn in Dobby's direction. "We very recently were forced to remove our butler from the premises. One never seems able to find reliable help these days…"

"It is no trouble Narcissa, I can assure you Dobby has been a most faithful and willing attendant today."

Dobby looked as though he might faint at hearing such— likely rare, Hermione realized— praise.

"Until we meet again," Dumbledore bowed curtly in Narcissa's direction, a sentiment which she gracefully returned with a slight nod, her gaze equally unflinching and discerning.

"Follow Dobby now, Professor Dumbledore! Please, sir."

They followed Dobby and past-Dumbledore through a maze of lamplit hallways and closed double doors until at last they reached a long wall of tall, narrow, glass-paned doors; Hermione saw lush greenery and vibrant sunlight beyond.

As they stepped into the garden onto a sprawling stone patio surrounded on all sides by the most extraordinary English garden Hermione had ever witnessed, she took a deep breath of freshly mowed grass and something subtly floral; it oddly reminded her of her parents' garden at home.

She also found the gentle bubbling of the garden's multiple fountains undeniably calming, despite knowing to whom the property belonged. The garden stretched as far as she could see, ending in rows of neat hedges and, beyond that, a lush, green wood.

_What a place to grow up,_ Hermione mused in awe. Malfoy Manor was as intimidating, but not quite as frightening, as she'd imagined.

"Dobby, you may leave me now, I rather find myself in need of a long walk," past-Dumbledore said congenially.

"But Madam instructed Dobby to bring Professor Dumbledore to—"

"I will find Draco, and then I will be sure to see myself out, and promptly. I give you my full assurance."

Hermione's eyes swept the expansive grounds again, wondering just _how_ past-Dumbledore planned to find past-Draco.

As if reading her thoughts, Dobby replied, "Young Master Malfoy seems to Dobby to spend more time by the forest's edge lately."

Dumbledore nodded in gratitude, "Good day, Dobby."

"Good day Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

Dobby swiftly disappeared, and past-Dumbledore began a leisurely stroll toward the woods, stopping every now and then to smell a red or white rose and to clip a particularly shapely petal or leaf, which he tucked into the pocket of his sweeping robes.

Hermione at last spotted Draco's platinum blond head from a distance, noting with curiosity that he seemed intent on concealing himself in the shadows at the edge of the forest. Draco's back was to them as they approached, and he was hunched over, shovel in hand, a fresh mound of dirt at his feet.

"Bugger off, Nott— I'm not in the mood," Draco announced angrily without turning around.

Hermione was shocked to realize just how much his voice had changed in six short years. Present-Draco was certainly no longer the child that stood before them now.

"That is no way to speak to one's friends, wouldn't you agree Mister Malfoy?"

Draco turned suddenly, clearly taken by surprise, and the shovel clattered to the ground as he pulled his wand from his pocket. Hermione saw his face at last, and his features were nearly just as she remembered at their sorting ceremony… but he seemed to her to be so much more innocent than she recalled… he was just a boy.

She was again struck by how much he had grown and changed since then, since the time of Dumbledore's memory.

_Have I changed that much too?_ She wondered.

But there was something else different about Malfoy's appearance in Dumbledore's memory; his hair was uncharacteristically disheveled and his typically pale cheeks were flushed, Hermione assumed from the effort of digging. His hands, face, and clothes bore the signs of his manual labor too, spotted with bits of grass and dirt and dust.

"Father says Malfoys have no need for friends— only followers," Draco replied resolutely, his guard held high.

Both past and present Dumbledores wore matching expressions of concern.

"You may lower your wand, I mean you no harm," past-Dumbledore gently informed.

"You're Albus Dumbledore," said Malfoy, lowering his wand, but Hermione noted he did not tuck it away. She knew Malfoy would no doubt recognize Dumbledore from any number of sources… the _Prophet,_ a chocolate frog card, or perhaps a chance meeting at the Ministry when accompanying his father to work.

"And you are Draco Malfoy," replied past-Dumbledore plainly. "You may address me as Professor Dumbledore, and I shall address you as Mister Malfoy, or Draco, if you prefer."

"You've come to bring me my acceptance letter?" Draco said, ignoring niceties, his eyes widening slightly at the prospect.

_Clearly not_ everything _has changed,_ Hermione thought in dry amusement.

"Why, yes, I have. Congratulations, Draco, you have been accepted to what I believe is the finest school for witches and wizards."

Hermione saw Draco's eyes light up in excitement for a moment before his expression again returned to skepticism and suspicion.

"But father said my letter would come in the post."

"Each year I personally deliver some of our acceptance letters… to select students," Dumbledore explained, and Hermione could see he had chosen his words carefully in order to assess Draco's response.

Dumbledore's words seemed to please Draco, as Hermione knew they would; he liked to consider himself special, worthy, even now.

Draco crossed his arms across his chest in satisfaction, a painfully familiar lopsided smirk now gracing his face. Hermione withheld the urge to roll her eyes.

"I see you are already prepared to join us at Hogwarts in September… is that a new wand I detect? One never mistakes Ollivander's fine work."

Draco nodded proudly, and Hermione was irritated to find eleven-year-old Draco's reaction quite cute.

"Hawthorn wood and unicorn hair. It chose me. It's been loads better than the other wands father made me use."

Hermione looked to present-Dumbledore questioningly, knowing that the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery forbade children from practicing intentional magic before outside of school before coming of age. The headmaster merely shook his head gently to say that now was not the time for questions, and Hermione turned her attention back to the memory playing out before them.

"I see you're not using your new wand to dig that grave, however… curious."

_Grave?_ Hermione wondered, tearing her eyes away from Malfoy's current expression of obvious shock and guilt to observe the fresh mound of dirt behind him, at the base of a wide tree. Only then did she notice a small, flat stone set beside it; clearly, past-Dumbledore was right, Draco _had_ been digging a grave…

_But for what? Or whom?_ Hermione suddenly felt sick to her stomach at the thought.

"It's not a grave," Malfoy replied, and if she didn't know him well, she might've believed him. His voice was even, cool, practiced. A sudden pang in her chest, Hermione mused that even at eleven, Draco was already accustomed to suppressing his emotion and any potentially perceived weaknesses… accustomed to deceit. Dumbledore also saw right through this act, however.

"There is no shame in burying the dead, Draco. It's one way we can honor those who have passed, human or creature. I remember my first pet well, Hebert the toad. He lived an extraordinarily long life for a toad, if I recall. I buried him by a pond, with the hopes his kin would come and visit him."

"It wasn't my pet," retorted Draco, as if the idea of a pet somehow repulsed him. "Father says pets are a sign of weakness… it was a wild ferret, in the garden. I fed it petrified beetles sometimes, and—" Malfoy looked away, clearly disturbed.

It was only then that Hermione noticed the faint streaks of tears that had cut through the dirt on his cheeks— the vestiges of tears now dried.

"Your father took notice of your interest, I assume?"

Malfoy nodded solemnly.

"He told me to— to kill it, with my new wand. He told me the spell, but I—" Draco looked away.

"You could not murder the creature?"

Malfoy looked up again, his eyes wide, and Hermione remembered one of her little yellow birds, the one Malfoy had kept alive for her to heal.

"Will I learn the killing curse at Hogwarts? Maybe if I could practice—"

"No, Draco," Dumbledore interrupted gently, but firmly. "Hogwarts, like the Ministry, does not condone the use of the killing curse, nor any of the Unforgiveable Curses, let alone teach them. In fact, any use of these spells will result in expulsion. Do you understand?"

Draco's expression again turned stony.

"Yes."

"And I would be remiss not to warn you, Draco, use of the Unforgiveable Curses, particularly the killing curse, punishes the user in much more serious and destructive ways than expulsion or a sentencing by the Wizengamot. These spells mark one's soul, change the very fabric of who one is…"

The edges of Hermione's reality began to blur, the sounds of chirping birds and rustling leaves and the light smell of roses fading away, as present-Dumbledore placed a hand on her shoulder, and his memory came to an end.

She was weightless again before the headmaster's office rematerialized before her.

"Professor, I— I have so many questions," her voice was weak, her head reeling from what she had just witnessed.

"I will explain… with the hope of answering your questions, Miss Granger."

She nodded silently.

"In truth it is not my custom to personally deliver acceptance letters. I have, over the years, delivered a number of such letters to Muggle-born students like yourself, but as I'm sure you know, Professor McGonagall took over this responsibility years ago."

Hermione nodded, listening with bated breath.

"As you have now seen, and as Harry has no doubt explained to you concerning the case of young Tom Riddle, I _do_ on occasion take the opportunity to deliver these letters myself. In Draco's case, I was deeply concerned just what kind of child he had grown to become. I wished to be prepared."

"You see, Draco is the heir of two ancient pureblood magical families, both with a historical predilection for Dark Magic, certain prejudices, and, in this century, support for Voldemort and his teachings. Draco, as you learned in my memory, was undoubtedly primed throughout his early life by Lucius… primed for what exactly, I was not entirely sure. To be a leader of the next generation of Death Eaters, should Voldemort one day return? To befriend Harry?"

"Professor, why would've Mister Malfoy wanted Draco to befriend Harry?"

"Ah… there have been rumors ever since the day Voldemort's killing curse rebounded off of Harry… whispers that Harry would bring about Voldemort's return, or perhaps, be an even more powerful dark lord himself."

"That's absurd," replied Hermione, who considered the idea of Harry, who was often selfless to a fault, as the next Dark Lord entirely preposterous, even comical.

"To you presently, Miss Granger. But the events surrounding Voldemort's supposed defeat and Harry's survival were mysterious…. and people could not help but speculate then as they do now about his status as the 'Chosen One.' I was concerned Lucius planned to study Harry, to attempt to harness, and undoubtedly abuse, Harry's power… or perhaps, to prime both Draco and Harry together, young pureblood men, to lead a new era founded on the baseless prejudice of pureblood superiority."

Hermione grimaced at the thought.

"It is also no secret that Malfoy Manor is shielded by a number of ancient and nearly impenetrable wards, which, as you no doubt gleaned, allowed Draco to learn and practice magic even before starting school, all without Ministry detection. And so, for the reasons I have now described to you, I felt it prudent to deliver Draco's acceptance letter, to give him the benefit of the doubt… before I allowed my own prejudices to override _evidence._ "

Hermione nodded in understanding at the implications of his words.

"As you saw, some of my suspicions were correct. Lucius had indeed primed Draco in the Dark Arts, even going so far as to begin teaching him the Unforgiveable Curses…

"But Draco couldn't do it," Hermione mused aloud. "Lucius killed the ferret."

Dumbledore nodded.

"Although it was not Draco's inability to perform the killing curse that struck me. It was his burial for the creature… clearly, he felt some form of—"

"Remorse," Hermione interrupted quietly, her eyes wide and unblinking as she met Dumbledore's twinkling gaze.

"Correct. It was clear to me Draco had the capacity to feel remorse… and much more than remorse, he was capable of _compassion_. He could have easily used magic to bury the creature, but he chose to dig the grave himself, with his own two hands. Considering his magical background, and the circumstances of his upbringing, this was remarkable."

Hermione vividly remembered the concern she'd seen flash across Draco's gray eyes at the sight of the dying yellow bird, and she remembered her argument with Theo, about Malfoy's true intentions; at the time, she was reluctant to believe his true intentions could ever possibly be good. A lot had happened since then, however, and she was beginning to see that Malfoy's choices and circumstances were as gray as her _own_ had become.

"I will admit I was surprised that day, but pleasantly so, to discover a boy who had managed to develop a conscious— one capable of remorse, compassion, and…" Dumbledore paused and Hermione looked up to find his eyes were twinkling again.

A lump formed in her throat at the word he did not speak.

"Well, I hope you do not mind if I dare to venture to say that it seems you have perhaps already discovered these characteristics for yourself," Dumbledore said gently.

Hermione reached for the necklace at her throat, speechless. It was true she had sought Dumbledore to warn him, but she had also hoped to gain clarity. Everything was now even more ambiguous, more uncertain, than it had been before, her feelings in particular.

Dumbledore glided across the room toward a towering bookcase, but she stood entirely immobilized.

"It is Draco's conscious that I count on, you see," Dumbledore said as his eyes scanned the rows of books. "Ah, here it is."

He plucked a rather worn, nondescript leather-bound book from the shelf and strode back to where Hermione still stood, still rooted to the spot.

Dumbledore placed the book in her waiting hands and she looked down to find a single rose petal atop its leather cover.; a familiar, subtle scent wafted up to her nose. Her eyes widened in shock in recognition— it was a petal Dumbledore had clipped from Malfoy Manor's garden; somehow, its ruby coloring and sweet aroma still remained.

"Professor… is this..."

"For you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore interrupted. "I hope you find this text equally as enlightening as my memory."

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione managed, her voice barely above a whisper as she gently tucked the rose petal inside the front cover.

She took the interaction as her dismissal, but as she reached the top of the spiral staircase, Dumbledore addressed her again.

"Miss Granger, if I may…"

Hermione turned to look back at the professor, and found the twinkle in his eyes had darkened, his features somber.

"It has been my experience that the heart and the mind are often at war with one another, blurring one's ability to make choices… to differentiate right from wrong."

"So which should I follow, sir?" She asked timidly. "My head or my heart?"

"That is a very good question, one humans have been asking themselves for ages… a question even I can not answer. But I suggest you consider another question now, perhaps a more important question… _When,_ Miss Granger— _when_. When is the right time to follow one's head, and when is the right time to follow one's heart?"

/

A/N: I really enjoyed writing an interaction between Hermione and Dumbledore, and building Draco's characterization. I hope you liked reading this chapter; I'd love to hear your thoughts!

At first I considered Dumbledore would never knowingly stand down if he suspected Hogwarts was about to be infiltrated, but in HBP it seems possible he wouldn't intervene with the cabinet for three main reasons; 1. He wants to protect Draco, and knows the most realistic way to do so is to let him continue to try to carry out his plan 2. He is already planning his own death with Snape, and 3. He knows Snape needs to gain Voldemort's complete trust in order for Harry to ultimately defeat him.

Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and leaving kudos!


	31. Lies

/

Hermione woke the next morning with the ghost of a scream on her lips after what had been a restless, and very brief, night's sleep. Unable to shake her panic and fear, she realized with a horrified jolt that, due to yesterday's unforeseen circumstances, she had completely forgotten to check on Felix.

_No!_ Her thoughts shouted internally as she dressed in a flurry, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. _No…_

Hermione rushed from her dormitory without so much as glancing around the common room to see if Harry or Ron were there, barreling toward the familiar storeroom on the sixth floor.

Gasping for air, she tore open the door and was surprised to discover that Theo was already there. She immediately sensed something was wrong, horribly wrong— more than the growing ache tearing at her insides.

"We're even now, it seems," he said evenly without explanation, and Hermione knew at once he was referring to the cauldron of Felix Felicis he'd destroyed doing their Christmas break, when he'd forgotten to add the Occamy shells.

Hermione felt as though all hope had been drained from her soul, as though Dementors were near— she'd forgotten to check on the potion, and now it was destroyed.

"Nott, I—"

He held up a silent hand to stop her.

"I know Weasley was poisoned yesterday… I think I can figure out the rest."

"I'm— I'm sorry—"

"You managed to save Felix last time, but this time it was my turn— nearly set the entire castle on fire in the process… but anything for Felix, right?"

It was only then that Hermione noted that one lone cauldron continued to bubble merrily atop an even flame. She also saw the ends of Nott's hair and eyebrows looked a bit singed. Under different circumstances, she might've laughed at the sight, or at the rush of relief that now coursed through her veins.

"Thank Merlin," she sighed.

"You look like you got into tryst with a troll, by the way," said Theo, leaning against the table.

"Only one troll? Not as bad as I thought," replied Hermione, her relief already fading away as her mind replayed the events of yesterday.

She knew she probably looked as terrible as she felt, which was rather like a ghost, wandering aimlessly throughout the castle in a fruitless search to accomplish something she had failed to do in life.

"Long night in the hospital wing?"

"You could say that," she said, vaguely wondering _not_ if Ron would be released today, but how many times Theo had been in Malfoy Manor's garden. She tried to imagine him and Draco playing Quidditch as Harry and Ron did at the Burrow. Strangely, she even considered what it might be like to visit the sprawling gardens herself on another vibrant summer day…

Hermione shook her head, willing herself to focus on Felix; the potion in the last remaining cauldron was— thankfully— still coming along nicely.

_Soon,_ she thought, hanging onto hope even as she felt Theo's eyes scrutinize her closely. _It'll be done soon._

"Something's happened," he said plainly. "And I don't mean with Felix."

"You mean the bit about my best friend's poisoning? Or that fact that I think we both agree on who was behind it? Ron would've died you know— if Harry hadn't found a bezoar."

A shiver ran down Hermione's spine; she resolved herself to visit Ron after she was through checking on Felix.

Theo did not refute her claim; Weasley's accidental poisoning had Draco's name written all over it, just as the fiasco with the cursed opal necklace had. But Theo still couldn't figure out _how_ Draco had managed either feats, nor _who_ exactly he was so obviously trying to kill.

Theo considered perhaps Voldemort had tasked Draco with murdering Slughorn, but that seemed to be a wholly pointless endeavor. The portly man was a skilled wizard— or at least he _had_ been at one time, Theo reasoned— and there was no doubt the man about as many useful connections as Greystoke's library had books. Surely Voldemort would be more keen to enlist the Potions' professor than to wipe him out of existence.

Theo had also considered perhaps Potter had been the intended target; he reasoned Voldemort had already tried to kill the git before, so why would he stop now? But Theo also knew Voldemort would never willingly delegate the victory of Potter's murder, a task that had evaded him for years, to someone else— especially not to Draco, the son of an incompetent Death Eater.

_So who the bloody hell is Draco trying to murder?_

"Not just that— there's something else going on with you… I can tell. But how _was_ Weasley poisoned, by the way? He's about as idiotic as they come, but even he wouldn't be daft enough to go around sampling Slughorn's potions' supplies… unless…"

Theo paused, an idea striking him. "…was it poisoned _wine_ that got him? Or mead? But Slughorn said he prefers wine… mead's apparently more Dumbledore's thing… or at least that's what the slug was raving about during one of his wretched suppers."

Hermione placed her hands on the table, steadying herself.

She was spinning, spiraling, dizzy from Ron's near death, her conversation with Harry, everything she'd seen in Dumbledore's memory, everything the Headmaster had said to her, and what it all meant. The memory of the scent of Malfoy Manor's garden and the prospect of the answers the book's pages might contain made her heart race.

Her sleep deprivation wasn't helping matters much either.

She wasn't sure when she'd feel able to face Draco again. Meeting Theo's gaze now was hard enough.

"Theo… I—" she replied, idly realizing she had chosen not to use his surname for what might be the first time. "I— I can't talk about this right now."

Theo regarded Hermione in shock. She looked and sounded… defeated, lost. Very unlike herself; her brown eyes downcast.

_She looks like Draco did this morning,_ he mused darkly.

Theo had woken that morning to the dulcet sounds of Draco's horrified screams.

Apparently, Voldemort had again entered his friend's mind, this time while he'd slept. Draco had of course been as reluctant as ever to explain much, but Theo gathered the Dark Lord's little nightmare intrusion was his special way of telling Draco to hurry the fuck up.

Luckily, it didn't seem as though Voldemort was aware of what Theo was now certain was Draco's failed poisoning attempt. The timing of Voldemort's intrusion had been merely coincidental… but that in no way dulled Draco's pain, nor their mounting fear.

"Granger… you didn't do something stupid, did you?" Theo glanced at her collar, and with relief, saw her platinum necklace was still gleaming there.

He was overcome by the urge to reach out, perhaps to place a steadying hand on her shoulder, to tell her she wasn't alone… but thought better of it.

Theo was reluctant to admit it, but it was getting more and more difficult to see Hermione as merely a means to an end, a shot-term ally… to pretend he didn't care about her. He'd come to accept the danger, and precariousness, of Draco's position— and by association, his own— but his chest constricted uncomfortably as he thought of the mounting danger encroaching upon Hermione as she continued not merely to associate with them, but to _help_ them— and, perhaps most dangerous of all, the relationship he could see strengthening between her and his best friend.

Hermione sighed. She got the odd sense that Theo was holding back, that there was more he wanted to say, but she couldn't bring herself to ask.

"I've been doing stupid things all year, Nott. And there doesn't seem to be an end in sight."

/

The news that Ron had been poisoned spread quickly, but it did not cause the sensation that Katie's attack had done. People seemed to think that it might have been an accident, given that he had been in the Potions master's room at the time, and that as he had been given an antidote immediately there was no real harm done.

By the end of the week, however, it was clear to Hermione that nearly everyone in the castle was more interested in Gryffindor's upcoming Quidditch match against Hufflepuff… everyone except Lavender Brown and Cormac McLaggen, who were utterly preoccupied with Ron's recovery and trying to take over Gryffindor's Quidditch team, respectively. They continued to harass her and Harry— respectively— with each and every opportunity.

"I know we should really use this time to brainstorm ways for you to get Slughorn to give you the rest of that memory, but tell me again… exactly _why_ did you agree to let McLaggen fill in for Ron?" Hermione mumbled to Harry at breakfast in the Great Hall the morning of Gryffindor's match.

"Y'know, I'm not sure," Harry replied tiredly. "But I'm sure I regret it."

_Could've told you that,_ Hermione mused darkly, a small part of her glad that McLaggen had seemed to move on from his interest in her. Clearly, Malfoy's threat had made an impression him.

_Or he decided you're just not worth the trouble,_ she considered dryly.

"I'm not sure who's worse— McLaggen or Lavender," Harry sad quietly, scanning the Gryffindor table to be sure neither housemate was anywhere in sight.

Hermione sighed in exhaustion. "You know, if you'd asked me that a couple months ago I would've said McLaggen without hesitation. But Lavender's introduced me to a whole new sort of agony."

Harry coughed on his pumpkin juice as he tried to stifle a laugh. Hermione, however, grimaced at the recollection of Lavender's incessant questions and remarks about her Won-Won. Apparently, the git was pretending to sleep when Lav-Lav came to visit him in the hospital wing.

She remembered the conversation they'd had with their red-headed best friend the last time she and Harry had visited the hospital wing.

"You're only making it worse Ron," she'd admonished. "For me in particular."

"Just end it, mate. Get it over with," Harry prodded, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

"I can't— you don't know what she's like—"

Hermione crossed her arms in irritation.

" _I_ don't know what she's like? You don't have to share a room with her! It's torture! I'd rather Grawp was my roommate!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Normally I'd argue with you, but you've got a point. Lavender makes _dating_ Grawp seem like it'd be more enjoyable."

"So you'll end it? She's being absolutely horrible to Luna, too—" Hermione interjected, scowling at the thought of the horrible gossip Lavender had been spreading about Luna.

"Luna? What did she do to Luna—?" Ron scrambled to prop himself up into a seated position in his hospital bed, as if readying himself for a fight in his pajamas.

"You know, general nastiness—"

"Bitchiness is the more appropriate term here," Harry chimed. "She's giving Parkinson a run for her money."

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed with a smirk.

"What? Don't act like you're not thinking it!"

Hermione bit her bottom lip, unable to argue.

"I'll end it," Ron said, as if convincing himself he had the strength to do so. "For Luna."

Harry and Hermione shared knowing looks.

But Ron had not ended it, at least not yet, and Lavender still seemed to find Hermione wherever she went: the library, the Great Hall, the loo, and even though her housemate was not a prefect, Lavender had even managed to sneak her way into the prefects' bathroom to find her— and it certainly didn't help matters that they shared a common room and a dormitory. Hermione couldn't wait until Madam Pomfrey released Ron. But the annoyance and distraction of Lavender was nothing compared to what truly weighed on her mind.

Sleep continued to evade Hermione, plagued by thoughts of poisoned mead, broken vanishing cabinets, the book Dumbledore had given her— the one she still had yet to read— a grave dug by hand, an enchanted rose petal, the cauldron of would-be Felix Felicis she'd ruined, and, perhaps worst of all, a set of familiar bright gray eyes.

"You really can't make it to the match today, Hermione?" Harry asked, and Hermione noted the disappointment in his tone with a pang of guilt.

She'd told Harry and Ron about her meeting with Dumbledore of course, but a very _different_ sort of version; one that certainly did not include a memory of a younger Malfoy, nor her full suspicions regarding Malfoy's role in Ron's poisoning, nor who she felt was his intended target. She'd outright lied to Harry and Ron— saying Dumbledore had examined her platinum necklace, telling her the same thing Bill had— the safest way to remove it was to get Malfoy to do it himself. She also told Harry she had asked Dumbledore not to intervene, worried the headmaster's involvement might somehow only make things worse— which was another lie, of course.

"I'm sorry, Harry… but I have to meet Malfoy. We're so behind in Healing. He's absolutely dreadful— I've been doing most of the work myself."

_More lies,_ Hermione thought, wincing internally. She was not planning to work on Healing at all; in fact, she and Malfoy were excelling as partners in the subject.

Reluctantly, she'd agreed to meet with him and Theo to take advantage of the nearly empty castle— and Harry's distraction— to work on the cabinet.

Truthfully, she wanted nothing more than to attend the Quidditch match, if only to avoid Malfoy. She'd done her best to avoid him all week, since Ron's poisoning, but Theo was already deeply suspicious of her change in demeanor, and Malfoy's searching glances had only increased with each passing day.

Nott and Malfoy aside, the book Dumbledore had given her continually nagged at her thoughts, and she was sure the smell of the rose petal from Malfoy Manor's garden followed her whoever she went, as some sort of cruel reminder; in any case, she could ignore it no longer. She'd decided to try to read a little before Malfoy and Nott joined her in the Room of Hidden Things.

"I'll see you after the match… to celebrate," she added with a smile, which, to her relief, Harry returned.

"Let's go see Ron first— he still thinks I'm keen to replace him," Harry said, sighing.

"Can't blame him— what, with all the _brilliant_ tips McLaggen's been giving you?" She replied sarcastically.

"Sure you can't Confund him again, Hermione? Maybe the team could manage without a keeper altogether…"

Hermione and Harry visited Ron in the hospital wing after breakfast, leaving him only when Harry had assured Ron at least fifty times that he would never be replaced, especially not with McLaggen, who was a horrendous team player (and a raging prat).

With the match about to start, they rushed to the entrance hall, Hermione intent to see Harry off (and to ensure he was not looking at the Marauder's Map) before making her way to the Room of Hidden Things, as scheduled on their Protean coins.

"Good luck!" Hermione called just as Malfoy exited the Great Hall, crossing their path on his way to retrieve a Polyjuiced Goyle to keep watch before making his own way to the Room of Hidden Things.

He stopped short at the sight of Harry and Hermione together, irritation quickly bubbling inside him, even more quickly than usual.

Draco knew Hermione had been avoiding him all week.

He also knew she continued to work with Theo on whatever potion they'd been brewing practically all year, but she seemed to have suddenly lost all interest in the vanishing cabinet. She'd also been exceptionally quiet and curt with him in Healing all week; their witty, sarcastic, and often scathing banter— the challenge of which, to his own annoyance, he'd come to rather enjoy— had all but disappeared.

Draco reasoned her change in behavior must have something to do with his own colossal failure that was Weasley's poisoning. He knew she already suspected him of cursing Katie Bell, but he wondered exactly how she had come to conclude that he'd had anything to do with Weasley's poisoning. Fearfully, he considered that perhaps she had finally revealed the secret of her necklace— or worse, the vanishing cabinet— to Potter, or Weasley… or even to Dumbledore himself.

His irritation disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, however, when he realized Hermione was intentionally skipping Gryffindor's Quidditch match… to help him.

He smirked with deep satisfaction as Potter eyed him suspiciously.

"Where're you going?" Harry demanded of Draco. Draco barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

_If only you knew…_ he thought, being sure to shoot a very pointed glance Hermione's way. To his pleasure, he saw she was wholly uncomfortable with the exchange.

"Yeah, I'm really going to tell you, because it's your business, Potter," he replied with a sneer. "You'd better hurry up, they'll be waiting for the Chosen Captain—the Boy Who Scored— whatever they call you these days."

"At least I still get to play— seems to me the Slytherin team couldn't wait to get rid of you—"

"No spectating for you today, Granger?" Draco interrupted, ignoring Harry's remark. "Can't bear to watch your hero get slaughtered by Hufflepuff?"

Draco watched with curiosity as Harry's expression transformed to one of confusion; the look he gave Hermione clearly questioning, suspicious.

A wave a satisfaction again washed over him.

"Malfoy, why doesn't it surprise me that you've obviously forgotten we're supposed to meet to finish our assignment for Professor Tonks?" Hermione said quickly. "Oh, right— because you're useless. If it weren't for me you'd have already failed out of Healing."

_So that's what she's been telling Potter? Suppose it's not a_ complete _lie,_ Draco considered reluctantly, remembering that he _had_ in fact been complete shit at Healing before her intervention.

He went along with her lie, and used the opportunity to further annoy Harry.

"Whatever you have to tell yourself to make it through the day— you're as delusional as the rest of your pathetic house. Run along now, Potter, or are you worried I won't take good care of Granger?" Draco grinned devilishly as Hermione glared at him.

Harry bristled.

"If you so much as—" Harry threatened, reaching for his wand.

"Harry, you need to go! The match—" Hermione pleaded. Draco saw this comment seemed to sober Potter, but it was also apparent he was reluctant to leave Hermione with him, his eyes darting worriedly between them.

"Go!" She urged. "I can handle the ferret."

Draco scoffed.

"See you after the match," Harry assured Hermione as he pulled her into a markedly purposeful, lingering embrace, his unblinking glare never straying from Draco's face.

Draco's jaw clenched at the sight of the exchange.

"Good luck!" Hermione called again as Harry exited the castle's towering entrance doors. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Smooth recovery, Granger. Very convincing," he said sarcastically the moment Harry disappeared. "Good thing Potter's a witless wonder—"

"Good thing we don't have time for me to stun you right here and now," she replied angrily, promptly turning her back to him as she marched up the stairs. He caught up to her quickly however, easily skipping two or three steps at a time.

"How about a nice 'Obliviate' instead? I need it after watching you let Potter act like he owns you."

"I don't—"

"So you think that little embrace he gave you was just for luck?" Draco interrupted as they walked through a deserted corridor. The castle was markedly quiet, most students and professors at the Quidditch match. "Spare me, Granger. You may not have the self-respect I was idiotically starting to give you credit for, but I know you're not stupid."

She didn't so much as glare at him as she continued her march around a corner and up another set of stairs; further proof something was amiss… something more than their baseline level of dishonestly.

"I'm starting to wonder if you _want_ Harry to figure out what you're up to. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be heading down to the dungeons to get Crabbe or Goyle? We're wasting time—"

Draco stopped abruptly, holding out his arm in front of her as he did so, not unlike the way he'd stopped her from retreating from Borgin and Burkes.

He stared into her golden brown eyes, and with disappointment he saw she would not meet his gaze. "Why have you been avoiding me all week? What are you up to?"

Hermione looked up at last, and he was confused to find he felt relief wash over him at the interaction. He was even more perplexed to see her expression was not one of anger, but one of conflict, trepidation… concern.

_Because your idiocy nearly killed my best friend!_ Her mind screamed in anger. _Because I'm sick of lying— because I have no bloody idea if what I'm doing is right or wrong— because you're as lost as I am—_

"I hate to break it to you, but I long for the luxury of avoiding you, Malfoy. And I haven't done anything. Now move— we've already wasted enough time."

"Fine," Draco relented, stepping aside to let her pass. "But I know you're lying to me."

He wasn't _actually_ sure she was lying to him, but, at the very least, it certainly seemed as though she was withholding information from him… and he didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.

_At least she seems to be withholding more from Potter these days,_ he thought with pleasure.

"And _I_ know you're lying to _me…_ and to Nott too, by the way," she replied calmly. "How is that any different than normal?"

/

/

A/N: Thank you for reading! A special thanks to those who take the time to leave kudos and/or review- your thoughts mean so much to me. The next chapter will be posted soon.


	32. Reflection

/

With the use of a translation glass— a flat, handled circular device used for translating texts to one's desired language— Hermione quickly discovered the book Dumbledore had given her wasn't nearly as old as she'd expected; the cover was simply well-worn, as if someone had read it over and over. She wondered if perhaps the ardent reader had been Dumbledore himself… and if so, why.

_For the Greater Good_ , its author mysteriously printed as "Anonymous" and printed in Cyrillic, detailed Gellert Grindelwald's rise to power; it was no surprise to Hermione she hadn't heard of the book before, some of the events— and ideals— described in gruesome detail. There was no doubt in her mind the book was at the very least banned from the library and certainly no longer in print; she absently wondered if another copy might be tucked away somewhere on a shelf somewhere at Greystoke Castle.

Before Theo and Draco had joined Hermione in the Room of Hidden Things before the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match, she had hastily flipped through the book's contents, discovering a brief, albeit wholly useful, section dedicated to the popularization, use, and magic of Vanishing Cabinets. Scanning the page, it became instantly clear to her that Dumbledore _wanted_ her to know how to fix the cabinet, but she could hardly fathom why.

With no time to fully comprehend the information Hermione had quickly scanned, she'd unceremoniously shoved the book back into her bag once Draco and Theo arrived.

With the bit of information she had somehow managed to absorb— the cabinets needed to face the same direction in order to work— they had, for the first time, succeeded in transporting the animated doll they used for Healing assignments to Borgin's and back without noted injury.

Hermione wasn't really sure why she had let on this information so freely; she was supposed to be thwarting Draco's plan… right?

But if she were to admit it to herself, she'd felt she had no option but to test the information in the book in order to really believe that _yes,_ Dumbledore had given this knowledge to her not simply willingly, but _purposefully_.

_He_ wants _Draco to succeed._

Hermione had gaped, stunned, at the doll's unharmed re-appearance.

They'd rejoiced at the progress (Hermione's joy markedly less enthusiastic, even though she could not deny the tug of strange satisfaction she'd felt, simply for the fact that her book-guided theory had been correct), but their excitement had come to a harsh end as they failed to safely transport the large mandrake— an _actual_ living creature— Theo had stolen from one of Sprout's greenhouses. Needless to say, the mandrake had not made it back in one piece.

Draco's silence had been enough to reveal his frustration. Hermione had done her utmost to mask her relief.

Not long after the match had ended, she had returned to Gryffindor Common Room to find Harry was nowhere in sight, the rest of her housemates in quite a somber state. Ginny and Neville had promptly informed her that McLaggen had lost them the match, and had nearly killed Harry in the process.

So she tucked _For the Greater Good_ back into her bag as she headed to the hospital wing. In truth, she wasn't thinking much about Harry's injury, preoccupied as she was wondering why it seemed Dumbledore wanted Draco to succeed, why it seemed the Headmaster wanted her to help him.

The sun had just set as Hermione passed through the wing's double doors, the stone floor and walls bathed in red, orange, and gold.

"I'm glad you're okay, Harry," she said truthfully as she took a seat between Harry and Ron's hospital beds. Grimly, she wondered how many more times her best friends would land themselves in the Madam Pomfrey's care before they all graduated.

If _we graduate_ , a voice in her mind whispered darkly.

"It was nice of him to drop in," said Ron, grinning, sitting cross-legged atop his bedsheets.

"Tell me— what happened again?" Hermione asked, scowling at the sight of Harry's hand wrapped in bandages and the dazed look on his face.

"Cracked skull," explained Madam Pomfrey as she emerged from her office, bustling up to push Harry back against his pillows. "Nothing to worry about, I mended it at once, but I'm still keeping you in overnight. You shouldn't overexert yourself for a few hours."

"I don't want to stay here overnight," said Harry angrily, sitting up again and throwing back his covers. "I want to find McLaggen and kill him."

Hermione couldn't argue; in fact, she'd love to do it herself, for more reasons than one.

"I'm afraid that would come under the heading of 'overexertion,'" said Madam Pomfrey, pushing him firmly back onto the bed and raising her wand in a threatening manner. "You will stay here until I discharge you, Potter, or I shall call the Headmaster. And Miss Granger, visitation hours are nearly over. I expect you to be gone when I check back here in thirty minutes."

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey," she replied, hiding her smirk as she watched Harry sink back into his pillows, obviously fuming.

"D'you know how much we lost by?" Harry asked Ron through clenched teeth once Madam Pomfrey disappeared through her office door.

Hermione barely refrained from rolling her eyes; Harry's skull had only just been cracked open like one of the doxy eggs McLaggen was so fond of, yet all he could think about was the final score of the match.

_Typical.  
_

"Well, yeah I do," said Ron apologetically. "After McLaggen bludgeoned you in the head, final score was three hundred and twenty to sixty."

"Brilliant," said Harry savagely. "Really brilliant! When I get hold of that bloody git—"

"There won't be anything left for you to get ahold of after I'm through with him," Hermione interjected.

Harry grinned appreciatively.

_Or maybe I could get Malfoy to handle him again,_ she considered, trying not to smile at the memory of his powerful stunning spell and the sound of McLaggen falling to the floor.

_Although,_ Hermione considered, remembering Harry and Draco's confrontation just before the match, _Malfoy would probably rather congratulate McLaggen for a job well done._

She frowned.

"You don't want to get hold of him, he's the size of a troll," said Ron reasonably. "Personally, I think there's a lot to be said for hexing him with that toenail thing of the Prince's."

Hermione glared at them. Harry at least had the decency to look slightly guilty.

"Don't tell me you're still trying out the Prince's spells…"

"He deserves it," Harry mumbled.

Ron nodded in silent affirmation.

And while Hermione quite agreed, she couldn't escape Theo's words from reverberating through her mind…

_"Who are you to decide who deserves what fate?"_

_Bugger,_ she thought.

"Anyway, the rest of the team might've dealt with him by the time you get out of here. I'm sure they're not happy," Ron added hastily, obviously keen to avoid the subject of the Half-Blood Prince.

There was a note of badly suppressed glee in Ron's voice; Hermione could tell he was nothing short of thrilled that McLaggen had messed up so badly, and she was certain Harry could tell too, even with his current head injury.

"I could hear the match commentary from here," said Ron, his voice now shaking with laughter. "I hope Luna always commentates from now on... Loser's Lurgy…"

"McGonagall actually let Luna commentate?" Hermione asked incredulously. It was difficult to imagine Luna's airy, and rather less-than-succinct, voice echoing through the stands.

"Sure did. It was brilliant," replied Ron, grinning broadly. "Too bad you had to miss the match to work with Malfoy," Ron continued, his grin transforming into a frown of disapproval. "Have you figured out what he's been up to, by the way? You seem to spend a lot of time with him these days."

She glanced at Harry, who was now wearing a matching frown. She remembered his confrontation with Draco before the match and quickly looked away.

"Don't remind me. I wouldn't have to if he wasn't so rubbish at Healing," she lied lamely. "And no… I still have no idea what he's been up to."

"Too bad we couldn't get someone to tail him, I'm sure Aurors do it all the time," Ron added casually, and Hermione did not miss the spark of revelation that crossed Harry's features.

_As if my life isn't difficult enough already,_ she mused darkly, thinking the last thing she needed was for Harry to redouble his espionage efforts.

"I should get going," she added hastily, glancing at the door to Madam Pomfrey's office, her thoughts traveling again to _For the Greater Good_. "I'll see you both tomorrow…"

Hermione hugged Harry and Ron before leaving through the wing's double doors.

Despite the book's dark subject material, she could not ignore her thirst for the knowledge within; she could hardly wait to re-open the book back in the safety and privacy of the curtains of her four poster bed, where she could lose herself in another time, another life, within the book's rose-scented pages.

/

Draco pressed his fingertips to his eyes— as if this act of pure exhaustion would somehow provide him with new insight into the book laid out on the table before him— but when his eyelids opened again in the dim light of the Room of Hidden Things on Monday evening, all he could see was the blood-red flash of Voldemort's glare, all he could hear was the echo of a hiss, the warning that had invaded his already fitful slumber only days ago.

_"Do not fail me Draco…"_

Somehow, Draco felt Voldemort's first Legilimency intrusion into his mind— after his failure with the cursed opal necklace— had been more tolerable. His mother had been at the receiving end of the Cruciatus, but at least he'd gotten to _see_ her then; confirmation that she was still alive, that her resilience hadn't faltered. And even though it had become clear to Draco that Voldemort— thankfully— knew nothing of his failed poisoning attempt, his mother had been absent from Voldemort's most recent "visit," and, as Draco quite suspected had been the snake's intent, it had been torturous.

Anger surged inside him and he shoved the hefty text he'd been trying to read away so forcefully that it knocked into Theo and Hermione's carefully stacked pile of books and research notes. The heap thudded to the floor, setting off a chaotic chain reaction of various alarms, bells, and whistles scattered throughout the room.

Draco swore and rose from his seat to put the stack back in order, freezing at the sight of Hermione's familiar, tidy handwriting, not because of what was written on the parchment, but simply because it was an extension of her… of her slender fingers poised around her quill, of the way she bit her bottom lip in concentration…

_Stop,_ his head told him.

Draco let the parchment float back to the floor and stood without any further attempt to clean the mess he'd made. He needed to clear his head.

The piano forte, the same one he'd played at Christmas, caught his eye.

/

Hermione used the rest of the weekend without Ron and Harry to finish reading _For the Greater Good_. By Sunday evening, to her immense and equally present joy and fear, she was quite certain she understood exactly how to fully mend the connection between the Vanishing Cabinets— theoretically, anyway.

She still could not fathom _why_ Dumbledore wanted her to know how to fix the cabinet, but what troubled her more was not knowing what to do with the new information. Hermione now felt she knew a bit how Harry must feel after his conversations with the Headmaster.

Hermione reasoned she didn't actually _need_ to do anything quite yet, or at least she told herself so; with the upcoming Apparition test, ever-mounting N.E.W.T.-level coursework, and in-progress Felix Felicis, there was certainly more than enough to keep her busy.

She knew she couldn't just outright tell Malfoy and Nott how to fix the cabinet, not without a plan first… she also knew she couldn't just abruptly stop helping them in the Room of Hidden Things without creating even more suspicion.

Ultimately, Hermione decided she would act as though she was still unsure how to fix the cabinet, with the hope the solution would remain a mystery to them…

_At least until I can think of a better plan,_ she thought, unsure of what 'better' really meant at this point.

Harry and Ron were both released from the hospital wing on Monday, and Harry had yet another private lesson with Dumbledore that evening. It was also Theo's turn to check on Felix, and Draco had mentioned something about prefect duty. Hermione used their distraction as an opportunity to examine the Vanishing Cabinet alone, something she had yet to do.

She entered the Room of Hidden Things to find she was not alone, however. The soft, haunting notes of a slow piano melody met her ears, and, even though she knew it had to be Malfoy, even though her head told her to leave, she tentatively followed the sound through the narrow pathways of hidden things.

Hidden in the shadows, unknowingly holding her breath, Hermione caught sight of his face reflected in a tall, shadowed mirror propped beside an armoire near the piano; she listened in awe, struck not so much by the song, but by the rawness, the honestly, in his expression. She'd glimpsed it before, of course, but she could not tear her eyes away.

She wondered if perhaps Draco had always been too fearful to be himself— too fearful of the vulnerability that came with such a thing— or perhaps it was the pressure of his family's expectations— or maybe he was only just now discovering who he really was.

It seemed to Hermione the most likely answer was a combination of all these factors, plus a healthy dose of something more… something beyond her understanding.

She could no longer deny her deep curiosity— compulsivity— to discover more about Draco… to know and understand the real him; although rare, every brief glimpse this year— in Knockturn Alley, on the Hogwarts' Express, beside him in a cloud of snow their magic had unintentionally created together— left Hermione with an ache for _more_.

She wondered who Draco hoped to become… if he even had such hopes. Perhaps any future at all seemed as shadowy to him as it did to her.

"I thought you were trying to avoid me, Granger," Draco said darkly as he noticed her reflection in the same tall, gilded mirror partly obscured by thick velvet drapes. He vaguely considered the mirror hadn't been there at Christmas. He stopped playing and turned to face her.

With the silence, his anger and desperation came rushing back. Again Draco tried to ignore the fear that coursed through his veins at the memory of Voldemort's last intrusion into his mind… the Dark Lord's threat had been clear: complete your task— and soon— or die.

Hermione jumped in surprise at being noticed, reacting instinctively, falling into old habits, at the sight of his glare."Do you only know sad songs, Malfoy? How predictable."

"What're you doing here?" He snapped, ignoring her comment.

She frowned, all softness and tranquility now drained from the room.

"I came to do more research," she lied.

He immediately thought of the sight of her familiar handwriting, of the parchment he'd clasped in his hands, but he could not stop his eyes from narrowing in suspicion as he rose from the piano bench.

"Already trying to escape Potter and Weasley? They've been out of the hospital wing for what—five hours? I suppose I can't say I blame you."

Hermione rolled her eyes, "You really just can't help yourself, can you? Watching Harry's every move."

Draco ignored this comment.

"I know you're up to something, Granger… you know, I've been erasing and modifying Crabbe and Goyle's memories all this time, but I think your mind should be even easier…"

"Please," replied Hermione, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."

"Because you can't fix that cabinet without me," she answered without hesitation, her gaze following Draco's striking reflection in the large gold-framed mirror as he strode toward her.

"Funny, that. How many weeks have you been "helping" us now? And look at that, the cabinet's still rubbish."

"And it would _still_ be rubbish without my help… but you'd be even farther away from a solution. You'd never have transported the doll without me."

Draco knew she was right. His jaw clenched in irritation, his eyes traveling to the necklaces at her throat.

"Don't you have other things to waste your time on… like Potter's _recovery_ from his little head injury? I didn't think McLaggen was capable of such a rare stroke of brilliance…"

"Shut up, Malfoy—"

"Y'know, maybe McLaggen isn't as useless as I thought—"

"Why are you so obsessed with him?" Hermione asked, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes narrowed.

"Who? McLaggen? Guess it all started when he decided to—"

"You know I'm not talking about McLaggen," Hermione snapped, trying and failing to erase the sudden recollection of the sight of Draco's eyes after he'd hexed McLaggen the night of Slughorn's Christmas party; the burning memory of the sensation of his arm around her sent heat— strong and sudden— through her core.

"I—I'm talking about _Harry._ All these years. Why are you so preoccupied with him?"

Draco laughed, his tone biting.

"You _would_ say that… being the one person who is _beyond_ preoccupied with the git… you know, you're the worst of them all, Potter's little worshippers."

Exasperated with this exhausted pretense, Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Truth hurts, doesn't it, Granger?"

"Sure, Malfoy," she replied dryly, taking a step backwards, if only to dissipate the warmth she'd felt at the memory of Draco and Cormac's conflict. "You seem to know an awful lot about cursed necklaces and poisoned mead, but what do you know about _truth_?"

_Touché,_ Draco thought, trying not to show his surprise at her mention of poisoned mead.

_So she knows…_

He shook his head internally. _Lucky guess._

"I could ask you the same question."

They glared at one another in electrified silence.

"So maybe you aren't as in love with 'The Chosen Arse' as much as I thought, considering you're still lying to him, and Weasel, too… but the question remains, Granger— _why…_ "

Hermione said nothing, not because she didn't want to give him the satisfaction that he'd got under her skin, but because she didn't have an answer.

"Why are you helping me?" Draco blurted. The question nagged at him, and often, her true motives still so unclear. He'd begun to wonder if perhaps there was something more… something he was missing.

As they stood on guard in silence, the image of Dumbledore's memory flooded Hermione's mind— Draco's remorse, the grave he'd dug by hand, the gentle scent of the Manor's roses…

It was all too much. _What am I doing?_

"I'm leaving," she announced.

Draco reached out to grasp her arm, but Hermione had sensed it coming, and swiftly dodged his grip. She felt his fingertips brush against her arm as she whirled around to face him, poising her wand just below his chin with one quick movement.

For a moment, Draco and Hermione were reminded of their confrontations on the Hogwarts Express and Borgin and Burkes all those months ago, but more striking was the realization of how much had changed in each of them— _between_ them— since then.

Hermione's golden brown eyes were mere inches from Draco's light gray ones, and both felt as though the shortened space between them was vibrating, humming.

"Try me," she breathed. He glanced down at her wand for a moment, smirking lopsidedly.

"Something's changed—" he whispered, trying and failing to extinguish his involuntary urge to pull her closer. "Ever since Weasley was poisoned. I don't know what it is, but when I find out—"

"—you'll what? Hex me? Erase my memory? Go ahead and try. And don't you dare talk to me about change."

The words seared their way from her heart into her lungs and throat, forced their way, burning, onto her lips.

"Look at you— you're falling apart. Forget McLaggen— even _Goyle_ could take you in a duel." Her chest constricted painfully at the changes of his features, the ones she noticed more and more each day— the narrowing of his already lean frame, the growing gauntness of his cheeks, the ever-darkening shadows beneath his eyes.

"And what're you doing up here alone… where's Nott? Or did you decide it was a good idea to destroy the only real friendship you've ever had? You don't deserve his friendship, you know—"

_She's right…_ Draco thought despondently. He backed away.

She regretted the words the moment she spoke them, but how could she take them back?

"Let me go," she whispered, her voice wavering.

Suddenly cold, he stepped aside. Her words left him raw.

Hermione promptly turned her back to him, her eyes welling with unshed tears as she disappeared amongst the stacks of hidden things.

Draco watched her go in painful silence, wincing at the sudden stab of pain in his forearm. His Mark had yet to take hold.

He slumped back onto the piano bench and caught a glimpse of himself in the gilded mirror; through his utter exhaustion and pain he couldn't be sure, but for a moment, he thought he saw Hermione's image still reflected there beside him.

/

/

A/N: I'm sorry this chapter took me so long to post! I really wasn't very happy with it when I re-read it, so I took some time for edits. I'm still not completely happy with the chapter, but I hope you enjoyed reading.

Much of the text from the portion of this chapter with Hermione, Harry, and Ron in the hospital wing is directly from HBP.

Thank you again for reading, leaving kudos, and reviewing! Your thoughts, kind words, and comments mean so much to me.


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